Posts for June 4, 2025 (page 18)

Then we stood by the wall when the East leaned to topple,
sung the chorus of bricks and mortar

shadows picked themselves
up again in event.

Birds perched on wire to watch children squawk
who flap their arms like chickens making dinosaur talk. 

In the age of Glastnost spread wide, there were strokes 
of petechiae and Perestroika stressing my crutches, I cried 

my lips expressed in tongues clear and sharp atop the purple blob
on Gorbachev’s head that stared with the munificence of Jesus.

AD 2025—I step aside, the Christ comes down, gobbles me whole—!
With five bites of the cities, like dominoes, the electricity falls

in Madrid, Paris, Lisboa, Barcelona.

We don’t matter to goats, iguanas, and toads on the D.C. road
or Beijing, Belgium — all DEAD —

be they blue, 
be they white, 
be they red

not for me, not for the kids, not for you

they all feed the papers and the television
to stuff us like olives, like crab rangoon

in Madrid, Paris, Lisboa, Barcelona, 
because Versailles fears the people, don’t you?

Kings think us marching-inadequate, etiquette-lacking, 
rioting-in-search-of-a-clue.  Rebels without applause.

LET THEM EAT CAKE!     We’re not lying!  

Why would we lie? 
To lie, why would I? 
Why would I lie?
Why indeed?

in Madrid, Paris, Lisboa, Barcelona

in Madrid,
Paris,
Lisboa,
Barcelona.

The ballot box knows only one answer for the noodles in my brain.
My ex-wife knows to heal the world making cans of jam,

jarring pickled relish,
serving coffee to a guest.

We have not time to make sweeping changes.  
The clocks tick, tick, tick! for one hundred summers alone.

We’ve no time to stop the clocks and make away
to Spain, Canada, or Switzerland, Venice, Rome, Bahrain!

We make no time and now the neighbor is a frightened friend,
una cosa preziosa, un anello prezioso in our twisted, tetric fat hands.

Surpassing richness in the land of my home, in the land, in the loam
where the hills crumble slowly, and the lost are worth their weight in coal—

Sea borne travelers, sail we us!—we, disrupted in distress, crying weak
in Paris, Barcelona, Madrid City and the rest.

We are opulent mules, inconsequential, rolling off the ton
of brick that held a century, dying to sing along

on a bus to El Dorado, built of iron in every bone.
A curtain, a shade of velvet chain and brocade

singing now! Singing graciously hear us!  Singing now—!
Remember when we kissed, and nothing could fall?

At some point in my youth, I fell asleep

Turn left at Dissociation Road.

You’ll head straight for as far as your eyes can see.

Take Exit 1 and merge onto Depersonalization Park.

At the first light turn right onto Derealization Street.

At the second stop sign make a u-turn.

Continue straight and merge onto Existentialism Avenue.

You have arrived at your destination.

Sweat gathers at the temple
for the first time
in my tiny, square patio. 

You’ve been drifting to sleep
for half an hour,
when you text,                                                                                                 
                                                                                                                             say something nice
                                                                                      Something nice?                                                   
                                                                                      It’ll have to be quick;
                                                                                      you’re slipping away.
                                                                                                                             I’ll wait to hear. 
                                                                                                                             I won’t sleep. 

And I can see it, in my head—
still frame at first, and then gathering
languid pace.  Our space
we’ve built.  Years from now. 

It’s twilight, there, and we gaze
down at a rabbit in your flowers.
It hops, nibbles, hops, and then
disappears into the tree-line. 

Your nose crinkles as you laugh.
You’re leaned against the far end
of the whicker couch, your face turned
in profile, watching.  Your legs are
stretched across my lap, caramel
coffee in my hands, liquid solidity,
and they absentmindedly massage
your feet…                                                                                            
                                                                                                                            go on…  
                                                                                       Still there?
                                                                                                                            mmhm. 

Here:  The cicadas have stilled
for the first time in days; maybe
they’re listening too.  

There:  Crickets and frogs
croon for companionship
in the dark; a deep breath
like a sigh, then a coo, then silence
from the baby monitor at my back.

You slide to my side and lay
your head on my shoulder, my arm
lifting without thinking to draw you
in—and we watch.  And we listen.
Til rain tiptoes the roof over our heads.  
                                                                                                                           is there thunder?
                                                                                     No, baby.
                                                                                     Or lightning.
                                                                                                                           okay, sorry.  go on…

I kiss the top of your head, your fingers,
my fingers scratching through
the Gordian knot
of your hair.
 
Eventually, you lift your face,
looking at mine, candle eyes–
reflected light from the fire
in your dark

                        and I think.  I remember.  How it felt
to be there (here), my soles in concrete, but
dreaming about this day.

                                              And my finger slides beneath
your chin, lifting your lips to mine.  Softly.  As if
I might fright you.  My forehead rests
against yours, and I breathe the scent
of air that has crossed the wonders
of your chest.  And I feel
perfect peace.                                                                                                  
                                                                                                                           sigh.  
                                                                                                                           that sounds perfect.   
                                                                                     I love you. 
                                                                                                                          I know.  I love you.
                                                                                                                          Now go write… 

So I do.  And while I do,
one little cicada squeaks
in the one little tree
behind my shoulder. 

I can’t see him
in the dark, in the night,
but he doesn’t seem to mind;
he still sings.

So I write.  And I post.
And for a little while
you don’t feel so far

away.

May rains fed the clover
A carpet of white blossoms 
fed the bees

When I was a child 
I plucked the stems,
wove a chain about my neck,
made wishes on four leaves

Even then I realized 
that beauty would fade
not all wishes come true
and everything living would pass