Posts for June 29, 2025 (page 7)

                                
                           s t i c k   a n d  s t o n e  p a i n t e d   o l i v e   l a v e n d e r  a n d 
                     e                                                                                                                             g
             n                                                                                                                                           o
      o                                                                                                                                                         l
 b                                                                                                                                                                  d

  outlasting horizon outliving all who gaze upon the bones of the earth from below or above

but you know this
and you smile anyways
sitting with feet touching cliff’s edge
a story, or is it a map?
held in your lap
as you press into clay
practised and firm lines
a design that unfolds
as the sun sets

Artwork: “Cliff painting”. Robert Arnold. Limited Edition Serigraph print 131/600. 

I worry
Yes, I worry
I worry

I lived through WWII
Safe in my backyard 
Safe in our Democracy 

Now must we begin 
Sewing our loves and hopes
Into our skirts and coats

Pack our suitcase 
With our heart’s work
To be rumaged through 

Can we find
that one thing
So valuable to buy time

What is money worth 
Does it buy freedom
Or greedom

How much is Democracy 
How much to buy back
Time?

Yes, I worry 

An octopus, shiny,
as if drenched in ocean brine–
looks at me from a vertical glass case,
once a fiery ball
formed into a giant bead of glass,
pulled and bent, constructed quickly
into 8 arms–lifting, dancing
silent.

Next to octopus, sea anemone–
floating, still, tiny periwinkle fingers, 
a crown, circling round,
caught in mid-sway.

So quiet, this room of glass–
jelly fish, sea slugs
iridescent orange blue pink
only sound waves of fluorescent light.

under

­a summary box for a horror series, and
fifteen links of
    DIY instructions,
    two rows of photos,
    plans,
    designs,
    supplies,
    guides,
    rentals,
    businesses with cozy names,

8 related search options,

    breweries with cool vibes,
    adventure park,
    nonprofit—

is the wikipedia link I seek:
what is a treehouse?

so quintessentially american,
so specific,
if you’re searching,
you surely already know what it means.

next time, try:
something specific

Shift into drive. North on 75:
the same asphalt throat
that swallowed your ancestor’s Ford
when the army coughed him out in ’42.

Back then, the rearview held
black lung and blackberry slopes;
now, it’s a dispensary billboard—
27 MILES—LEGAL RELIEF
glowing like a false moon.
You count exit signs like lotto numbers:
Toledo. Monroe.

Two parallel roads. One scar.

The state wants your bones cataloged
before it grants you anything.
Same as your ancestor’s:
crossing state lines to sell their hands
to another assembly line—

Show your papers, prove your need
while the old migration hums beneath your wheels.

At the counter, they swipe your ID—
Disabled? the budtender nods,
You get 10% off.
You almost laugh. And fill your cart.

Outside, crows heckle
from a power line.
They don’t know.
You grip the wheel.
Feel the old road
swallows your tires like swallowed
hope, this pilgrimage of fractures—

I’ve spent time searching for her,
this sprite of writing,
this lady of the lyric-lake,
this siren of synonyms and antonyms,
this paramour of the poets—
                                                    perhaps not for me,
a celibate of syllables and repartee.
She has her seductions:
the hint of light over the Sandias,
the layers of mesa-color,
the one bud that survives the heat of day.
I have met her in the cocktail-lounge
of our common laughter, the final rasps
of departing life, the revelation
of sacrifice (old Father Albert, cancer-
ravaged, admits his ignorance
of my troubles, but says, “I’m fasting
for you today,” and the muse winked.)
Will she visit again?                                 
                                    Perhaps I will see
her skirts flash around a dream-corner,
or her ghost around the edges of my eyes
before I rub away the narrative of the night.
Is the waiting worth it?  Will she deign
to call on me again as I sit with regrets
and resolutions?  Will she still want
to rest a hand on the hand that holds
this pen (or rather, taps this keyboard)
in the sliver of space                                  
                                    between life                                  
                                    and wonder?

How lovely you are, with yarn of each hue, size, texture, and origin.
How stunning, twisting and weaving into the fabric of stories told.
How bold, giving embroidered precision, arm-knit ambiguity. 
You are a tapestry: the ink, echo, word, meaning, identity.

Hell is a table by the window,
where the AC’s broke and the sun
bleeds syrup on orange-oiled wood.

He orders Uncle Herschel’s Favorite Breakfast.
Who eats a hamburg steak before 10:30,
medium eggs like jelly moons,
torched bacon brittle as old bones.

She eats grits—six steaming spoonfuls.
Thinks, stay.

Spring comes when Persephone slips out back
to smoke in the cramped employee bathroom,
by the dumpsters. She whispers dandelions
through asphalt. Just one drag—
Til Hades himself hollers from the kitchen door,
“Hon! Table seven needs some pomegranate tea.”
She grinds the blossom under her non-slip sole.

So what if the sky’s aching blue?
For months, the coffee’s kept fresh.
The music–not dryad, but flesh
against hot grease. Her & her lover.

Her mama searches every interstate exit
as the old men in checkered plaid and A-shirts
stare at cold coffee and weep
for the waitress. She stalks paper menu,
wet with maple and the steam
of something boiling.

On months the ice cubes stay whole,
Persephone calls from the pay phone
outside. Demeter comes in her van.
They leave with next shift on napkin,
six biscuits cradled in warm wax paper—
like a stolen kiss.

The attention span of a goldfish is 11 seconds according to The Coffee News. Other sources say 9. Far older sources suggest 3. I’m neither sure how the attention span of a goldfish is measured nor how the measurement ranges from 3-11, but clearly the goldfish is getting smarter. The attention span of humans has recently been compared to that of a goldfish. This research must be very complicated; though, to be honest, my news feed provides time-to-read information at the end of every article, e.g.., 3 min, suggesting a short attention span indeed, though much larger than that of a goldfish. I doubt the average goldfish could read even the shortest of these articles.

a hand outstretched and ignored / bare skin against the floor of a treehouse / sunlight through the holes of dead November leaves / your rain jacket / an arm around my shoulders as I cross the road / a tap on the shoulder / standing on my tip toes to see / forest fires / Halloween rain / all the meals I didn’t eat / sitting alone in someone’s else’s apartment / again /