Posts for June 8, 2025 (page 8)

to     
capsize,                         swept
                                                   across the
                                                             dark stone,
       the

         thick moss             of
                                                                                the
     
past,                                teetering
                  decades
                                                         overcast

            with
                                                                  the cold

                            country
                                       of
                               over-
                                        extending,

writing about that
     white wall                                of
                             dying,
                                                                      your life
                                 unspooling—

      a    pulled        thread from the tangle                of
              time, 
                                  a
                      heap of                               memories.  

~  An erasure of Rebecca Solnit’s essays, The Faraway Nearby, pg. 143-4

a scribbled note in a child’s hand ~ fer halp mi reed
phonetically scrawled
syllables scramble ~ vowels dance in and out
innocent love bleeds

a first grader’s note?
no, a recently transferred east L.A. 5th grade bi-lingual student
parents working two jobs
thankful he’s in “Happy Corner” after school program help him ’til dark

this scotch-taped family hold each other tight
storm survivors squeezing an immigrant’s dream
my heart screams
“WORK FOR FREE!”

I check Temu, my retinas rebel.
Prices rise, even on items marked “locally available” –
exempt from tariffs. Merchants make up
the difference where they can. (Just ask Walmart.)  

Higher prices on coffee, instant or grounds, feel punitive.
Will I be denied that waking scent?
Will my treasured French press be relegated
to cheap, generic black tea bags at $2.99 a box?
Will tariffs hit tea?

Even on Amazon joe costs more, though
my Café du Monde preference with chickory remains
manageable. Perhaps more folks will find the additive stretches
the brew, or does the cult of fake coffee attract:
Postum, Almost Coffee, Pero, Teeccino?
No, no cost relief down that road.
Why pay more for zero caffeine?  

“Eggs are down 400%,” says the fool
who thinks “groceries” constitutes a quaint, old-fashioned term.
Is this prophecy: groceries vanish into the past?
GLP-1 products become obsolete?  

My Italian lemon ricotta cake will not be baked;
refusal to pay certain prices constitutes personal protest.
Basque cheesecake? Cream cheese equals luxury
on Social Security.  

A friend hit the local food pantry.
Produce filled one refrigerator, “Take two.”
When she got home,
opened her bags of strawberries and little zucchini
to reveal rot and mold. What was the point?
With 50% tariffs on steel and aluminum
even canned commodities will vanish.  

Non-organic bananas now appear at the old price for organic.
This is a problem: we don’t build bananas here.      

hidden deep in her 
mindseye     her name soft lamb neck 
in her own hand  ghost 
blue shadow peaking at her 
whispering     but the cicadas  
the buzzing blue is all she can see & hear crawling
all over the windows                      wings shimmering
in pale light                           their red against the sun
                        washing the blue out
            flashing like partial eclipses              tiny beating suns
                            heartbeats forming in her throat
                    & then her name came
spilling out her mouth            Icarus
        in fairy form wings sparkle & ash falling
from the sun                     dusting the room in       soft echos
                    her name in her mouth                 foreign fruit
                      biting into her tongue

mama said you can’t hurry love
mama said save it for the wedding night
mama said it fits like a glove
mama said don’t worry he won’t bite
mama said talk it out, don’t let anger brew
mama said go easy on yourself
mama said let your words be kind
mama said bring your light into the world
mama said live your truth
mama was the caregiver, kept the peace, the bond that kept us all together.

(inspired by B Elizabeth Beck’s prompt last night)

She stands quietly.
Right where I left her—
still, waiting.
Curves aching to be held,
her polished form fading
beneath my absence.
She’s never asked for much—
just hands, just time,
just the space to be heard.

Strings lie still across her perfect frame,
tuned for moments that never came.
She holds no grudge— only potential,
gathering like dust
beneath the weight of my excuses.

Her voice— I’ve heard it in glimpses,
echoing faintly through closed doors
and crowded schedules.
A sound that once moved me now
muffled by every reason
I gave to walk past her again.

She is the calling I keep postponing.
The open door I never step through.
Maybe doubt. Maybe fear.
Intimidation often creeps up
when confidence is unstable.

She is my dream,
the love I long to display.
Perhaps my pause is born not of doubt—
but of feeling unworthy
to touch what feels divine.

While I tread
the battlefield of my value,
she just waits.
A quiet reminder
that faith without action
is a song written,
yet never played.

fixed on you from across the room

like camera lenses recording you

for some later longer consideration

head tilted lengthening the neck

inviting a fantasy of strange lips

leaving their mark on your heart

or drawing blood to quench thirst

hand holding yours as you dance

as she walks with you to the bar

while you sit thigh to thigh talking

about nothing of real consequence

or describing a bed in the sunrise

(after an undated and untitle photo of a woman seated beneath a painted fan, by Tom Hoops)

All the little snares that come along
Any one of which can trip or trap
Little weak points inside of you
Can dictate your feelings, your predjudices,
Your behavior!
Your inclination to bully meets up
With a situation of little resistance
Points of insensitivity, vacuums of awareness
They’re looking for opportunities to sneak
Past your guard and get out
This of course will blow your freedom
But maybe, now
That’s what you want
The clamp you’re in
The brace, the cast, the rut
Maybe it’s embracing
Sure feels like a Lazy Boy, kicked back

Should Simon Stimson be 

The Spirit is no contained, candled wisp.