Posts for June 14, 2025

The sky burst open like a birthday gift
Mushroomed like a bouquet of white crysanthemums
Put on a show that would make my fine german paints throw up their hands in frustration

I’ve been told there aren’t clouds in Northern California like the ones we have here
I’ve heard a similar thing at many points over the years. Something about the clouds here is special. But no one can tell me what that is

The clouds dance for free
and some will pay extra for a table
to watch them breathe and change
from one stunning soundscape
to another and another
Faster than you can take it all in 

Every color a flavor
We must imagine what it is
An acid lemon, an artificial blue razberry
Blood and mangosteen iron
Cantaloupe guava
Something mauve and electric
mango stew, mulberry, adzuki bean, taro

Thanking us for being here
A Mingus parade of sounds
An impossible metropolis
of neon strawberry pink
and low cello notes of grape.

Both children and adults admit
that they find their lives adhering
to the patterns offered by certain numbers,
clinging as if these specific amounts
will save them like a lifeboat.
For most of my life 
that number took the form of sevens,
multiples, duplicates, and dividends,
because I loved the way 28 appeared,
or I loved the way 7 always stood stolidly against the abundance of later numbers.
When I pretended to know more about life
and feigned interest in other things,
I tried to work my life around the number 5
and instead found all my things in disarray around me,
yet the chaos failed to confuse me.
Sometimes numbers remain with us 
even when we try to abandon them,
and I have been seeing
‘far too many 7s and 5s lately
to believe anything different or healthy.
All this rambling has me wondering,
adjusting,
deliberating,
and observing:
What numbers still move you?

I took my ass to Owensboro 
I threw my name into the ring 
I honked as I passed by the protest(
To the tune of HOT TO GO, I’ll have you know)
I drank water
I got on a bike for the first time in a decade
I told my friends I love them 
I gave folks the benefit of the doubt
I told men to read The Authority Gap
I registered you for Engage Lexington 
I walked to work 
I called my mom
I tipped generously 
I didn’t give up hope
I planted seeds, watered them, was patient, kind, gentle even
I dug my hands in dirt, watched them grow, thanked the bees for helping me
I grew this cantaloupe, 
Want to come over and crack it open? Maybe
we could do something

We started on our knees 
our entire upper body
supported on shins 
inhaling the weight of
this world through noses 
exhaling its pain with
hmmm out our mouths
balancing bodies on one legged
and cross legged stands 
holding whole bodies in the air
with only the strength of elbows
pressed into triceps
the darkness of this world
the cogent words of the yogi
brought salty tears 
to flow from my eyes
Today and tomorrow
I set kindness as my intention

I was in a small, open-roofed room,

or so I guess, from what I overheard,

but now I’m not, and I don’t know

if I’m in another place to escape from,

or if this bigger space is freedom.

Those are only words that seem to be

related, but with so many definitions

for the blind child in me to sort and select.

(after the 1961 photograph, “Blind Boy at Wall,” by Charles Harbutt)

It’s been a long car ride down to this busy cove

Where retirees gather to golf the remainder of their lives

And invite their children and grandchildren to run about their villas

Last time I was here, I was grieving a loved one

Who departed the day I arrived

I didn’t do much the last time

But this isn’t a sad poem

The ocean has never been unkind to me

Though I didn’t fully accept her most of my life

I’ll lay on the sand and let it stick to me

While she creeps up curiously to the tips of my feet

Singing me a lullaby to block out the sounds of passers by

I’ve got a crone in me
I’m trying to invite to tea
She’s got a lot of wisdom probably

My inner child can kick rocks
What I want is long talks
About the state of the economy
And how often we get up at night to pee

There is snow on Mount Tongariro
in August. 
We have tickets
for a gondola ride over the mountain. 
They’ve closed the road
and we have places to go, 
so we’ll never ride that ride. 
I put on my possum fur headband**
and wish I had a heavier coat.
My friend stands in the falling snow
like she’s singing “The Hills are Alive.”
I shiver in my fleece
and enjoy the novelty of snow
in August
on the other side of the world.

**Possums are quite a different animal in New Zealand.

Hate this, kernel of hope

I’m always running.