Posts for June 14, 2025 (page 6)

tiredness engulfs
while the sky leans toward gray
I’m looking to develop a summer rhythm
therefore not permanent 
early to rise, not late to bed
investigate the neighborhood’s blooms
       practice peace
       pray for health and freedom from what consumes
       take a walk, read a book
     land    
 like a butterfly, therefore lightly
until summer yields and all is spent
then I’ll return to my usual pattern
the grind of normalcy
unless I find a way to make this joyful alternative
exist long term
and truly, why not?

I wonder if you go to therapy now
to help you deal with your upper class life.

Do you complain about how the job hunt is going?
Vent about how much you miss your family?
Do you revisit the trauma of your ex girlfriend accusing you of sexual assault?

I wonder if they’ll make you realize what you did
or if they’ll just affirm how you already felt about it. 

Therapy or no therapy
accountability or apathy
you will always be my burden to bear.

No sleeping beauty

or princess aching from a pea.

We are sweltered insomniacs.

Still, we dare to dream

of a cocktail

to melt the clinking ICE.

We stay to witness the fall

of the scorching orange sun,

before we can finally rest.

The back porch came to the house
after
the two bedrooms, the living room
and the kitchen.
It came after the outhouse closed
and was replaced
with real plumbing and pink tiles.

The back porch room has always been
my playground-
a safe room
for me, the cats,
my grandmother’s spade.
It’s where I did my best boy band ‘woohoo’
and belted showtimes to no one, in particular,
pausing to bow
before the piano,
the dusty crooked windows,
and ceiling tiles that would eventually
fall down
around the ceiling light from a roof
gone bad.
The gut of the house, its politeness
lives in the back room.
Always has, always will, I suppose.

Metallic dust settles on
on my tongue, my fingertips
after sorting through boxes,
and for a moment,
the old shelves have returned-
shelves filled with books,
seed packs with past due
expirations fill my memories.
The magazines, sheet music
and hurricane lamps still gather dust, too.

But the moment passes
-as moments do-
and I am shaking the weed eater free
from the hedgetrimmer,
sneezing from a combination of
dried grass and old wood.

In the confines of my classroom

Here, no troops, no tanks, no swagger.
Here invisible people line up for coffee, a snack.
Here, a woman sits, surrounded by bags of clothes,
        asking for something in her size.
Here, my Navajo friend, smiles toothless, says
        “Long time no see…since Monday!”
Here folks need toilet paper, hygiene kits, socks,           
        nothing gold-plated, thank you.
Here a man, bent over with fentanyl,            
        struggles to find words for what he needs.
Here the woman gets the extra-large slacks and flowered shirt,            
        returns the gift of gratitude 
Here they line up for the bathroom,            
        queue for food,            
        accept a burrito,            
        focus on what’s needed
        speak a street-truth.
Elsewhere there is marching,
perhaps good trouble and civil speech,
and here:
light in brief moments,
adding to a larger radiance.

in dozens of cities nationwide
protesting a forty million dollar largesse 
and the need for one man to be above it all.

This isn’t the U.S. I grew up in,
where compromise was expected
at the end of day.

The fracture of ideals between 
mindsets, a stark divide
between haves and have nots.

The city streets crack under
the weight of tanks rolling past
the dictator-in-training.

I hear the taut—snap—of fibers
of course, it’s my favorite chair
A *pop*pop*pop* as Dotdot looks 
right into my indignant eyes and 
recitals her claws’ symphonic capacities.

“Stop clawing my chair, there are better ways to get attention,” 
my voice warbling in the way of some unmet ancestor.  

(The accent always strongest when corrective—it is a
                                                                                                Damning 
bit of legacy.)

I remember just 
how many of us 
have been told, 
“you’re doing that for attention”

—we, the weary, the
so. goddamn. tired.
testing any claw in the cabinet, deep 
into the upholstery of our own shins
and forearms.

As if attention weren’t a lifeline.
As if we were only meant belonging when we’re good girls.

“Hello, sweet baby,” I sing, I pat 
my lap, a mirror to that
melody set upon the surface of my chair

It’s just a chair. 

I can mend it with
beautiful compositions of embroidery and
not wait for time to heal
it over into
ghosts of lightning on
taught skin.

This concert is both
audience and performer.  She joins me, here, 
(a gorgeous bit of crowdwork) 
rakes her wet teeth, gentle 
across my fingers to lead them
to attend the soft folds where ears meet 
skull, my claws reaching soft where
she most often wishes 

the validation of touch.

Nimble fingers press eggshell,

Use 
your
wealth
(see Part 1)
to
make
more.