Posts for June 6, 2024 (page 3)

I am going to be useless and happy 
I am going to make art that no one loves but I like 
I am going to try to not worry that I won’t be able to pay rent or retire or maintain my stupidly expensive hobbies 
I am going to try to have enough money to have a cat with pretty eyes and my own room and a sweet treat every few days 
I am going to do what I can and love my friends and box dye my hair (even when I’m fourty)
Because I am and I am and I am and I am and I will continue to be.

I joke with a friend that I need someone 
who’ll love me in the same way I do 
the palisades that hug the Kentucky River–
distant and with a certain kind of care
that feels as selfish as a stone. 

Mountain, man, midden, whatever I am become,
is a river rock something ever closed off solid?
Even the palisades seep groundwater,
natural springs. Rock still crumbles with time,
time and a certain kind of pressing.

She snorts and blows
skittering sideways
tail flagging and ears pinned

With a soft smile and quiet words
a tall lean man rests his elbows on the fence

At his words, she stills
her head drops
her body softens

She walks quietly to the fence, nickering

He leans in with a smile,
places a hand on her face

Her eyes drift contentedly closed,
and they stand together
in quiet communion

Why are there so many songs about rain?
It’s just water falling from the sky,
Sometimes sprinkling,
Sometimes in a downpour,
Sometimes causing flooding.

Raindrops falling on your head,
The rhythm of the falling rain reminding you of the fool you’ve been,
That rain in Spain,
Who will stop it?

There was a great flood,
And a man named Noah, according to scripture,
Was commanded to save a certain segment of animal life, including his human animal family,
By building a huge boat to carry them over the water,
While all other like beings drowned–except, of course, fish and birds.
I wonder now why they got a pass.

Sometimes we have too much rain,
Sometimes not enough,
And this is very important to us,
But rain doesn’t care.

log onto socialmedia.com, and i hate how i let

people complaining about

people complaining about

stuff i didn’t even know people complain about

ruin my day.

it’s enough to make you wanna

complain about it,
 

but usually i just let

someone’s bad take about blorbo

fester into a heart-shaped blister on my heart,

like i’m on the playground again and a pretending friend

called my favorite Pokemon stupid.

He worked hard

        after  a long day at Cross Chevrolet,
        Cadillac, and Buick when it
        was successful, the only one
        surviving in a small town

        he worked hard as a farmer until the lay
        of the field he sowed gave darkness, a fit
        like a cover on rolling hills until seeds were one
        and done, except for harrowing them down

        so crows would not walk the length of the field
        eating the seeds one after one until there were few
        left to sprout.
       As night fell, the only sapling, straight and sharp

        stabbed through the 10-28 rear tire, killed
        it with the anti-freeze, flowing like blood, too
        soon flat and out,
        and I walked off, leaving him cursing like harp

        notes. I drove the ’54 Chevy even with him.
        I could tell by his silence that he was surprised, 
        but he did not miss a beat, hooking the harrow
        to the car. He said, “don’t drive too fast and tear it up.”

        He watched me harrow the field until it was done.
        He unhooked the chains and we rode to the house in silence.
        
    

under a sky       hearvier
                   by far than              earth

                                clouds shudder applause
      to      typmani      brass      a  siren’s
                                 vibrato              sostenuto

             rain      a corps de ballet             skittering
     across puddles            no trace of  their
                        feet       only         imprints

               their choreography
                                            electric as lightning
                       dazzling       &       fleet

Today might be the first day of change,
Yesterday was the breaking point,
But tomorrow is a new beginning.

I met her in New Orleans
She was a soul singer with a velvety smooth voice and deep set brown eyes
We talked about music
I told her, most evenings we used to have Show Time
My little sister and I would sing ’40’s tunes for Dad
I’d play piano
She’d stand atop the piano bench
As we sang to our hearts content

I told her I played Ja Da ~ Ja Da ~ Ja Da Ja Da Jing Jing Jing ~
my sister would bring in the harmony & swing

We’d pretend we were two McGuire Sisters singing “Sugartime”
Sometimes we’d sing Billy Rose’s “Papermoon” and Daddy’s favorite “That’s Amore”

The one with the velvety voice smiled and nodded . . . her words rolled from her lips like butter . . . “Now dat’s some kind’a wonderful!”

I don’t know if this counts as character defects, but
I don’t really eat any fruits or vegetables,
I should eat-healthier-and-exercise-more,
and I should be less gross.
I’m a really gross person. A color wheel of comments,
stares, avoided glances, isolation, exclusion,
expulsion, swirl,
braiding sewage into my dna.
A story etched in time, from mitochondria eons old.
The truth is set in stone, and people can smell it.
There’s no ice to break. They don’t want to. It will smell too bad.

If we’re counting character defects,
I shouldn’t sweat so much or smell so bad,
and I have a lot of body hair & I don’t really
dress well. I don’t really dress
like a girl.
I’m never attracted to people who are attracted to me,
and people I want never want me.
I’m the problem. I should like who likes me
or I should be hotter
or I should give up.
I don’t remember when I tripped this trap,
tangled in my own limbs, net barely stretching around me.
The world is upside
down, I’m sticky, sickly, ugly foreign fruit
hanging from this tree, who doesn’t want me.
Who set this trap and when are they coming to get me?
I want who I want and that should be allowed.
shut up. Imagine having the audacity.

I guess if you want more character defects,
I’m really prone to dramatics.
I’m susceptible to going off the
deep end.
The peregrine falcon can dive for prey at 242 miles per hour.
I don’t know gentle spirals like peeling an apple or fun spirals like tornado potatoes
or silly spirals like optical illusions, black and white, and dizzying—light-hearted.
It is with a heavy heart, I trudge.
I’m impatient,
want beyond my means,
act beyond my station.
I am nothing and I should know that by now.
Happiness is for other people, not for me.
I’m ugly and no one would love me.

No one, or your parents?
I don’t have time for these strange questions.
Harpy eagles can see prey up to two miles away
with incredibly high acuity.
The voice I know the most is
my parents’,
a harsh and judgmental god’s,
with vision of my faults, flaws, and unworthiness.
I’m torn to shreds and I numb the pain. But I know it’s there.
It burns.
No one in the whole world can love me.

There’s 8 billion people. How can it be true?
My parents were my whole world for so long. How can you tell
me it’s not true?

There’s a whole other world out there.
My parents said they were the best in this world
and they loved me
and only wanted what’s best for me.
I don’t want to imagine how the world could possibly be worse than my parents.
I’m too afraid to find out.