we each spin
stereo images,
a world
around us carved
thrice ,
once each
dimension,
circling like clocks
whose ticks
pass the time
in this
infinite dust
until we burn
universal truths
like fireflies
after rain
Taste is easily forgettable.
Eyes: we see danger.
Ears: we hear danger.
Touch: we feel danger.
Smell: we inhale danger.
Taste, though, is taken forgranted
for it is thought to not protect the body
as much as the others do.
Yet it enriches the soul,
nurtures it with the essence of life,
food tilled by the hands of man,
and it’s formation affecting the very being
of us.
I have traveled miles upon these soles
Darkened leather, silcone,
Rubber, thread, tacks, insole, mid sole, my soul
Construction of a mask so that my feet
May tread the earth as I face each day
I have worn them amidst a dusty cattle shoot, where the fear I had in staring down a 600 lb steer with a tobacco stick that mightve been a sword was only out weighed by the man and father whose shout affected both steer and child in panic, welts and shanks in equal shares.
I have worn them in my jubilation of life, surrounded by family, crisp May day when the world compromised for the tied hearts, clover blooms and hollow words, shined upper and tonges.
I have worn them in the midnight hour. Where pulling on the straps so hard left tears upon our existence, so much with the words of failure haunting in my head, my heart where avenues led to the void and bottom. In desperate need to heel.
And they have worn me. Halfslip trips, backstay above the fray, dry through snow, safety in a composite toe. Farming, dancing, laughing, crying, dying, and living. I stay in my boots. But to be barefoot upon the tide…
a hefty tub only lasts a weekend
in the middle of summer, scooping
savory loads of cold cut chicken
scouring for pecan and purple
grapes to complete the ritz
cracker creation. 10.99 a pound
seems ridiculous for a thing
made with such simple ingredients
though no one even orders from
the deli anymore, so i pretend
it’s the grown-up ice cream parlor
as i watch the hair-netted lady
scoop out the chunky fresh
afternoon delight out from
the plexiglass and onto the
scale, somehow a pound perfect.
i cradle my serving in the basket
nestled between cheap bread
and fancy crackers as i can never
decide which way i’d like to devour it.
Walking through the Santa Cruz Mountains one night, I came upon this feeling. The Lakota Sioux Indians refer to the great Spirit as Wakan Tanka. Try this one with a beat.
Redwood Forest
Redwood forest
Moonlit night
Heal me
Make me strong
Make me broght
Heal me
Let your silence
Calm my soul
Heal me
Wakan Tanka
Inner light
Heal me
I am healed
I am healed
I am healed
tonight, i undulate with the tide—-
becoming a mother, the mother,
the only way possible:
permitting consumption
long ago, she birthed me,
abandoned me, rejected me
into the sand as if
she wasn’t there to carry me
she
wasn’t
there
—-
your
mother
died
the magnolia delivered the news
that i had another mother,
not the ultimate mother,
a once-living mother
now, the only comfort was to be consumed.
the horizon of ocean
spread out like the broken jaw
of a corpse—-this
was my only mother now,
& my heart could no longer remain
separate
her salty drops sting
my eyes like teeth
brought under & spun
until she & i were one—-
the grief was not conciliated
she spit me out
dizzy
i wanted my once-living mother,
the now-dead mother,
not this beast of a mother:
me as a mother
yet when i looked to the sky,
the sun was still setting,
& i guess that’s a mother, too
Wherever inspiration strikes
Home in bed
Everywhere
Restaurant
Enclosed patio
In my car
With friends on Zoom
Reclined in my chair
In a chair on the beach
The Lexington Writer’s Room
Even in the bathroom in the middle of the night
It doesn’t matter
where we’re headed
destination unknown
or nowhere at all
it’s gonna be a good time
the moment will be frozen
yet years have flown by
like the passing of billboards
postcards pressed in a travel diary
to remind me when we’ve gone gray
how we laughed all the way to the coast
singing and snacking all the while
soda
drips
down
my face,
each rivulet sticky trails
of
regret lead me back to
me.
why is it always me?
doors are always too heavy for me. i hate this.
the cool air is shock
ing to the sweetness stuck
to my skin.
there’s no time to wash off in the bathroom.
i have to get out of here.
i have to get out of my skin.
i have to get out of me.
i hate this.
why do i do this to myself?
why is it always me?
She’s so beautiful.
she’s right to be upset,
but why at me?
Isn’t it his fault too?
Doesn’t she see me? Why would he want me if he has her?
hey are you okay? everyone was worried about you.
none of us are okay. why would i be okay? it’s fine. it doesn’t matter. don’t worry about it.
She saw you as a threat. Isn’t that a compliment?
It’s not her fault. He made me into a threat. i’m nobody. she wouldn’t have even noticed me if it weren’t for him.
i didn’t know. if i had known—
well. if we start with if’s…
why, … nothing much would change.
I’m so confused. I just wanted to feel wanted.
I write moments of my life
on torn scraps of paper
like pull tabs plucked
for guitar lessons
from a flyer on the glass
bus stop wall.
A few words
or a phrase
like “college”
three or four hobbies I once delighted in
“first marriage”
names of friends
no one current
only those lost along the way
get a slip.
A few dreams
jobs thought
to have potential
“closer relationship with son”
moments not taken
others given too impulsively
a shot
at something better
ink to paper.
As I write each one
I relive a moment
pain and happiness
mistakes made
the good with the bad
time spent
is never refundable
and I kiss each one
to a candle’s flame
incinerating them.
All over again.
