American Sentence from Yesterday
Failure is a stone in your shoe you can’t shake loose—blisters will persist.
Failure is a stone in your shoe you can’t shake loose—blisters will persist.
novelty
I have heard it used derogatorily
I know it as a gift
opening fresh beauty
new eyes seeing
the tactile investigation of a formerly unknown entity
taken in hand
assimilated into the structures preexistent
a whole new world arises
isn’t life grand
Not so long ago,
on the cosmic scale,
humans communicated largely
through grunts and
facial expressions
and body language–
and by swinging clubs
they still do
(ride every day in a subway car
and you will see plenty
of grunting, gesticulating humans,
some of which do, indeed, swing their bags,
umbrellas, knives)
life has always been dangerous,
but we are the real danger:
“higher life form” perhaps best defined
as “one capable of discovering new ways
to harm”
we use our “intelligence” for
selfish pursuits and
too many of us
take actual delight
in the suffering of others
(are we not the animals?)
yet it is unwise to ignore:
those without
their own clubs
are easy targets
Unbelievable truth spoken
Heart rending emotion
While my heart bleeds out
You’re right, not my rights see?
My hold on you now gone
Where is love’s new token
Fidelity speaks proud scout
This trite price not even free,
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
This beautiful word alone
Enough for chances gone
Falls short the loud spouts
This mouth open on me,
Hold released and beholden
Sprint forth a course run on
Pursed red lips not only pout
Maintain my silence I agreed
I love you
I love you
I love you
I really love you. .. … ….
“Just Stop It!”
Now that I’m sixty-two, I won’t be moving
to Seattle anytime soon,
won’t be dunking on the neighbor kid on legit rims,
won’t be drinking myself stupid drunk,
unless the book sells, then all bets are off.
Won’t be pulling the wings off flies,
or poisoning the ants that have made
a highway of the windowsill,
won’t be shaving the dog or staring down the cat.
I’ve gotten far too old for that.
What I’d like to do, now that I’m sixty-two,
is walk among trees aflame in fall,
make a hobby out of listening to the calls
of the small birds that have made
the hedge their stage,
whittle a pointed twig into a pointed stick,
dance in the rain like a crazy person,
organize the bookshelf by essentials and others,
all the things I couldn’t be bothered to do,
until I opened my eyes, at sixty-two.
Her mouth is busy
with the pretend cry
of a baby who looks around
to see if anyone notices
She rests on the musky blanket
under the shade of the trees,
squirms
like a desperate worm,
then stays still
to watch a swallowtail
unfold and disappear
The butterfly’s flittering
causes a stir in her
that slowly edges over
into a full blown performance
of a blowout
###
There is no rush in me,
only a casual saunter to see
the least
of what’s required of me
When I bring her up
to rest her head on my shoulder
she clutches my twisted beard,
pulls hard
to lift her eyes
to the swaying pines
Her blue eyes
are the dual barometers of the world
as ever so slightly they fall
into a baby’s state of grace
ssshwooo…
the whistle of the wind
through the swishing needles
is our lullaby
She walks barefoot
down a dirt path.
Slow, ponderous strides,
draped in black velvet.
A sliver of the moon hangs in the air,
towering over a copse of tall,
ancient trees.
She walks barefoot
to the edge of a graveyard.
Slow, ponderous strides,
the mistress in black velvet.
The bite of midnight,
autumn air dancing through the trees.
Singing a haunted tune,
mistress of the night.
