Posts for June 8, 2024 (page 13)

yesterday a box turtle
looked up
at the man of dust

                             kept his neck stuck
                                                      all the way out

                                       his red eyes
                              like air quotes
                              as if to say:

                                ‘excuse me, sir
                                 what’s all this about?’

with unhinged brows
                 in wild punctuation
the dusty man
       discarded:

‘it’s twenty twenty four-
your kind
should know
by now’

                          then 
                            he slid his neck halfway back
                                    inside
                             his emphasis- a sluggish dash
                                in turtleish reply:

                                ‘we’ve never really
                                                             had
                                                        to think like this
                                                             before-

                                               even though
                                  we’ve always had shells.

                                                                this
                                                                    is
                                                          the first
                                                                   its
                                                                  felt so
                                                                  endsome-
                                                                         somehow.’
                                                
                                    

You have your own way of looking at things  I have mine
We can share  to the depth of our being  from our own view  point
never though  can we replicate with any truth and spirit  each others horizon

to bring each to the truest place of self  is this  this is  why
we stand alongside  the best of us  to the best of us  look out across each others horizon
carry if necessary

bring to wonder  awaken to day
know this is  could it be  it could be  all and everything

from the sputum spitting smoker’s cough

or the woodsman’s splintering ax.

We’re all in pieces.

You can run through a field with the wind in your hair
And let your troubles fly free
Punch your fist in the air like a big angry bear
To show them all that you need
You can sit by yourself with sun on your skin
Let the pain go like the falling of leaves 
You can do all of this and do all of that
But you can’t catch a fish in a tree

You can walk many paths and touch many stones
Frolic with birds and the bees
Kiss all the frogs…. hang with the dogs
And laugh as you shake off the fleas
You can take in the talk but if they don’t walk the walk
Time is a waistin’ you see
 You can do all of this and do all of that 
But you can’t catch a fish in a tree

 Hold out for the best, don’t nestle for less
For my goddess you are a queen
When you know it’s not right, you’ll sleep great at night
And nothing’s more lovely than peace

Wait for the one who is the yen to your yang
It will be worth every moment indeed 
You can do all of this and do all of that
You can’t catch a fish in a tree  

Lo, movement like the film reel,
the palpitation     twisting. I saw you-
macropsic,         thrown up the walls, 
distorted. My body does not     do

what I think it should.

I find understanding in relation-
Quadraphonic         to your image.
Instead of going to class,
we push         power strip carts
from room to room,
armed with laminated hall passes,

and I do my
               best to try to fall in love with you.

The bus takes me home,
secret     stash of stolen library tapes
in my backpack. You don’t listen to cassettes,
something about         the richness of vinyl.
It’s strange to me, usually I’m the one living
with         one foot in the past.

At night         in my room,
my projector mind     hums         and shudders,
and I stare         at my Sally Ride poster
and try to imagine

being your nagging wife.

I’m not sure what my problem is-
I’ve never         met a more perfect boy.
You don’t try to talk to me about sports
only movies,        comic books,        music. 
Even though I’ve     watched     you
turn into a man,

I still         don’t believe it.

When we go to the drive-in,
and we do     go often,
I keep my eyes trained on the screen-
Never         at the cars beside us,
Never         at the couples inside them-

So I don’t have to wonder why
my stomach drops             when he
slides his hand up the back of her neck.
So I don’t have to ask why
you aren’t             touching me.
So I don’t have to ask why
I don’t want it.             Not         like that.

he has learned not to speak
those mornings she wakes &
hotfoots it to the desk, passing
him with finger in the air meaning
hold it I have words bubbling

The humidity fuss of her sunflower
rattled in the recent mizzle turned tornado  

since a clipper dipped down from Dakota
causing closed highways and F4 winds.  

Her grip on the wheel’s adroit, open position
turning left, she mentions nitrogen and oxygen  

atoms. Panic of weather radio’s urgent basement
shelter. The city made vacant. Tattered ends,    

the thrushes of her bangs vibrate, she says “air
is an insulator” in the Post Dispatch gale.  

A lone cop car passing slow,
like some love poem,  

through the braille of scattered vehicles
peppering the median. 

And who knew? 

A girl pulls newfound courage covered in Nos over second-chance skin.