Posts for June 3, 2025 (page 4)

The sun rose, the morning rode
in with rubber tires and crushed the night.
Stars crunch, hollow like bird bones.
Broken wing juts out from black feather mound,
a lightning-struck weather vane servile to the breeze.

I used to dread the summer every year.
I’ve always loved school and learning
and always lot I hated it because of that.

But now I can’t wait. 

for the first time in my life,
I’m excited for summer
and finally realized why I hated it. 

it’s not the lack of learning,
or bugs
or getting sun burnt,
it’s the lack of friends. 

I got attached to toxic people
that only talked to me when they had to,
like at school. 

But then I changed. 

I wanted to become my role model
after she passed, my Mimi. 

I started by cutting out people who didn’t care. 

now I have people that
apologize when they miss plans,
tell me they wanted to,
explained,
and rescheduled. 

and when we have fun,
we plan for the same thing the next day. 

the first year I’m actually excited for summer. 

I’m forever grateful to God
for providing me with amazing friends
that are right for me. 

And I can’t wait to find more. 

I used to sit in my room,
crawled in a ball,
rocking,
thibking they were coincidentally always busy.
now I know. 

now I lay in my bed
on a call
while planning with other people. 

I never want this feeling to end. 

I hope this years summer breeze
doesnt blow too far away. 

Tumbling wings, canary yellow
Pitched beneath a pitch of ancient green
Calling back a drowning song that echoes
Coal mine, coal mine, mine
mine, mine
Dig deep enough to overturn the gods

100 years later, still tumbling
Feathered under screen glare – digital pitch
Laughing back a drowning song that echoes
Be mine, be mine, mine
mine, mine
Multi-step skincare routine is next to godliness

Tumbling heartrate, temperature rising
Ancient mother keeps her globe of babies afloat
Sending up a drowning song that echoes
Please try, please try, try,
try, try
As one, then another, slips away from hearing

I lay in the heat, head circled by writing spiders.
Their webs are a crown. The blood pools in my face.
I’ve torn down their artistry until they have built homes
in less obtrusive places. The peace has settled here.
I am queen of what small worlds I can white-knuckle.
In control of all things, I bite the scabs on my fingers
so they grow back smoother. I don’t get bored of trying.
I hang the flowers in the closet to dry when the stems snap
from the weight of their beauty. I don’t accept them dying. 
I am religious about killing the aphids. I lock the doors at night.
Rules and rules I keep. I only clean the mess that’s mine. 
There is still so much to clean. I tried hard to consolidate
myself, live in isolation to feel the silence rise around me,
to hear myself think again. So I shut down my escape routes.
The mail came and piled in the foyer and I built a castle from it.
Now I forget what others want from me. But I can be generous.
I let the mosquitos feast on my blood because they are small
and I try to be merciful and benevolent. After all I know well
what it feels like to be hungry. The sting will pass soon.
I peel off a second skin of dried Benadryl gel, born again,
and fantasize about the shivering of my heart, dream
the disequilibrium will ease. I will force all things to balance.
It will all be right soon. The sun will cool off enough to let me rest,
cocoon and resurrect, and be untouchable when the shut
door to the closet opens. The flowers will be perfectly preserved.

do you remember the sharpener and how we all looked up every time a teacher asked or bell rang or you didn’t know the answer to the next question so we scrambled out of those wood and metal mini-prisons to sidle up the front next to the chalkboard and twirl the grinding gear that chewed down on the nubs of pencils we could ill afford

hard to believe that wasn’t yesterday
considering

Its late July
Your fingers are wrinkled
My hair is still wet
The air is thick 
A deep kind of heavy 
And I’m melting
Like the sticky wet sweetness of popsicles and preaches as they drip down your chin
You wipe it away,
youth glistens on the back of your hand
I drip into the sand 

Cowboy, his cologne the hiss of bitter coffee, tin foils shooting stars.

“a walking contradiction
partly truth and partly fiction
taking every wrong direction
on his lonely way back home
and there’s a lot of wrong directions
on that lonesome way back home” 
– Kris Kristofferson, for Harry Dean Stanton in: “Harry Dean Stanton: Partly Fiction”

The interview,

Everything

just happens

nobody’s in charge

it’s one big,  fantasmagoria

Everything

is unfolding

perfectly nobody’s in charge

I’m not in charge,  I was

Everybody and Nobody’s

in charge of their lives

we think we are

but we’re not 

it’s all,   predestined,  all 

written, it’s all written

already

I’ll just go along

with the trip

Be still

and know

breathe and smile

every step 

peace is every step

it’s all Eastern stuff and

effortless

Beyond consciousness

“Where were you before you were born”? 

no

reincarnation

is another ego trip

a Buddhist saying

to think

you’re an

individual

with an individual,  soul 

with an individual,  identity

is not only an illusion

it’s insane

no answer to it

it all

just happens

Found poem  //  from AP interview “Harry Dean Stanton…on his philosophy of life” AP ENTERTAINMENT. 4 Sep 2013. Los Angeles, CA

I am the sum of every ancestral love letter that roams my bones

I am as long as my grandmother’s prayers when stretched thin as tomato sandwiches and suga wata

I am the darkness the moment your eyes adjust to no light

I am vulture carving wings into southern air thick with all left unsaid yet seen

I am water working stone over millennia moving towards sea and source

I am root lifted and re-planted

Call me by the name you trust whispered by the wind that reminds you forever was never ours