Posts for June 1, 2026 (page 18)

divided.

                              be                                                            tween 

                                                  a   dream 

                                                       &

                                                liquid lucidity.

I sublimate:

                       becoming

                                            a

                                                       subconscious

                                                                                        stargazer

                                   how am I transported?

                         a

                                                                                              swift

                              s

                                   w

                                         e

                                              e

                                                   p

                                                               a

                                                                      w

                                                                               a

                                                                                     y

                                                                                              in whitewater wash?

                                                                                                                               a turbulent t-h-r-u-s-t 

                                                                               through a tornado’s cone?

    Oh, Dorothy. We are not in Kansas anymore…

                                          I ride like a speck of dust,

                       clinging to the rich fabric worn by a whirling dervish

                                        dancing, spinning

                                     sailing along the Sufi songs

                                            g

                                       n

                                   i            

                             h

                       c

                a

        e

r

                                                for high-holiness

                                            hands turned skyward

                                     palms begging to be filled with grace

                                              fingers bending,

                        palms pressing

                                                    the

                    hollow                                                   space

                                      between believing

and finding forgiveness for those who shape such a sin

                                                                                       ….or I never left at all.

                                                                  The water’s meniscus cups my head in crescent-shaped

                                                                                        construct that trick seers upon first glance

                                                       while bobbing

   between                                                                                         both worlds

  that clutch each other tight

                                                      never stop living

                                                                                             and yearn to let me go.

It’s a spicy
kind of night.
Garlic chicken
over white rice.

Hot and sour soup
sits on the stove.
Waiting for friends
who will arrive in droves.

Embracing the laughter
we cannot contain.
Engaging in debates
without any refrain.

It’s a spicy
kind of night.
The food and company
were perfectly right.

• TiltedOne

The Romans are proud of their water,
a guide told me years ago. This water,
once brought by aqueducts from the hills now
pours from a spigot on the Via degli Artisti
near our convento, day and night and Romans
and tourists fill their bottles here. But last night
as I passed—there was a bouquet of roses
left beneath the trickle.
                                           What was the story?
Did lovers quarrel?  Did a suitor think better
of the match? Did a romance end on these cobblestones,
only to be watered
not by Rome’s pride,
but by her tears.

The cool kids hang at the coffee shop
Themselves, their signs

At least, they did in those days
And the signs do, still  

Or the one does—Bobby, Bobby
The We miss you hidden beneath the ink  

Bobby, Bobby—We miss you
I wonder if I did  

When I slunk into the coffee shop
Hoping to catch coolness from their eddies  

Was some of it from him,
On his way out as I entered?  

Bobby, Bobby—We miss you
I wonder if they do  

There, at the coffee shop
Now that the other kids are grown   

Cool kids, sign writers
Myself, the baristas  

Kids still, just college-aged
Who’d seemed to us already grown  

Who all is left, now,
From those simpler days?  

When the cool kids hung at the coffee shop
Themselves, their signs

Boundary Work

Ksh-grrrrit… Thooop. Ksh-grrrrit… Thooop.

I was digging for words between us.

My shoulders tightened
with every jolt the earth hurled back.

Ksh-grrrrit… Thooop. Ksh-grrrrit… Thooop.

The air thickened between clamshell and ground.
Each strike pulled more suction—
the dirt grabbing back, unwilling to release.

Ksh-grrrrit… Thooo-oop. Ksh-grrrrit… Thooo-oop.

I spread the handles wide as a wishbone,
the earth molds itself shut.
Gravel scrapes the blade’s tip.
No instructions, only resistance.
The ground yields to steel
but rarely to agreement.

Ksh-grrrrit… Thooop. Ksh-grrrrit… Thooop.

I am putting up fences
to keep you away.

Ksh-grrrrit… Thooo-oop.

        Ksh-grrrrit… Thooo-oop.

     “If I knew how to write a poem, I wouldn’t.”   

I’d rather drown in the open ocean,
the smothered sound of the albatros waiting
for my corpse to float back up
after shark jaws tear, and hagfish burrow away
taking, and taking, and taking.

I give, and give, and give.
Too much? Not enough?
Matter of perspective.
I’ve been compared to the Spring rain
that gives seedlings the inspiration to grow.
I’ve been thought of as an arid land
with not a drop of drink to give.
I’m soaked up and spit out.
I intake purity and poison
and cut away to let it all flow out.

I’d rather drown in the open ocean,
throat choked to keep from saying yes again,
people pleasing pushed down by the current,
jerking body to final stillness,
no longer worried about the world
water releasing, and I’m finally free.

Ubiquitous (read aloud)

        Not Every

        but every
        junk car
         is there.

        the best
        and call her
        by her name.