mosquitoes pick the weirdest places to chomp
i somehow managed
to get bit on the back of
my knee with pants on.
i somehow managed
to get bit on the back of
my knee with pants on.
Just ask
this stupid rock
built on brackish secrets:
What can we know of light ‘til cracked
open?
I tell my therapist
the interaction
made me feel
not trans enough.
She says
There’s no thermometer to measure
what percentage of transgender
you are,
if you’re done
and baked to perfection,
etc.
Each person must decide that for themselves.
hum Skye Boat Song
mow grass with me
sit on the porch
rock a while as we
wipe our brows and
talk about the heat
wonder a little about
life, death, taxes, the
chicken and the egg
how bumblebees fly
who’s on first or
what’s on television
tell me your dreams
plot retirement
thank the maker we
never fought a war
hold my hand if
you want to while
the silent twilight
falls into nighttime
until we fall asleep and dream of each other’s love
bring back memory
of medicine balls,
to feed grandmother chung,
i made myself— mashed
sweet-sour tamarind, salt,
sticky rice, bananas—
placed on her muscular
tongue. (i tasted first.)
later to cut sugar cane
she gathered in her trunk,
then thanked me with luck.
i could use a medicine
ball myself today.
and more of her luck.
but echos of her triumphant
trumpets satisfy for now.
On a mildly focused very hot day,
a breeze might take some of me away
leaving a blurry version behind
as I learn to let my chair recline
This listless puddle that now is me
feels flexible on identity
as my Cat enters speaking on the matter
sharing his truth through mystical chatter
He’ll allow me to daly with musings today,
but wants me to know he has the last say:
“Haze your hot days away if you will,
but don’t forget this whippoorwill”
He beckons supreme as the house diplomat
according to him I’m just another cat,
but not only that, through rain, heat or snow,
I am His Cat—- that’s all I need to know!
the need for sustenance will it be
a peanut butter and made last month when picking was possible without melting strawberry jam slice of sourdough toasted on
this hot June afternoon where the cycadas give a second thought to singing and the sun bursts follicles mother calling
checking in on my temperament I turn the thermostate two degrees to the left
no refuting the bill just getting through a pickle
with sharp white cheddar cheese not melted no it’s too hot for that but softened
eased into the crevaces of the baked french roll sliced horizontal with dills and a sip of
new england india pale ale
hazy this afternoon
