Posts for June 3, 2026 (page 5)

In the Garden of Eden for Seventeen Minutes and Five Seconds
by Marianne Peel  

She grabs my hand
and guides me down the narrow passage
to her basement art studio.  A whole wall
floats an ocean of psychedelic acrylic creatures,
jitterbugging seahorses,
Texas-two-stepping star fish,
all between the borders of cinder blocks.  

Let’s smoke a joint, she tells me.  

And I remember being in another basement                         
in 1975, just after Saigon fell. Choppers lifted
whoever pushed their way to the front
up and out of the red clay of Vietnam.
From a couch with broken ribs, we watch
the rooftop ascension
on 60 Minutes.  

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida grinds
on the turntable.  A dizzying riff on a loop,
spiraling between our smoke rings.
Eddie and I make out.
Our adolescent limbs fumble,
ferreting out whatever innocent skin
we can find.  
During the two-and-a-half-minute
drum solo by Ron Bushy, Eddie tugs
on the fringe of my cutoff jeans.
Unravels me
as he runs his fingers along the edges
of my embroidered peasant blouse.                                       
Fueled by this rock n roll that feels
so much like a hymn, I watch
the iron butterfly of me
shimmy out of its cocoon,
abandon its weight,
take flight to the cob-webbed rafters.      

Eyes red. Strained. Too sore.
TV static. Late night ghosts
on the radio.

Someday I’ll Love CIS White American Men…

Perhaps when they closely read Louis L’Amour and
pay closer attention to the pursuit of bullies and
less attention to the gunfights.

Perhaps when they closely read Larry McMurtry and
pay closer attention to the needs of others and
recognize that leadership is more than pointing the herd.

Perhaps when they closely read James Wade and
pay closer attention to knowing themselves and
realize that self-love is the first step to becoming a real man.

It’s all I have to bring today— *   
   this and my open palms.
This and my palms, upward held, and the dew   
   and all the wild bluegrass roots.
And June poems writ in early morning  
   our red-feathered couriers will deliver—
dropping them in cornfield rows   
   to scroll across the earth. This and my open
palms and all the honey-scented tulip trees
   that shade our old Kentucky homes   

so we can weep no more
   (well, perhaps, at least)   
weep no more today

*title/first line from Emily Dickinson’s poem
of the same title, inspired by her verse.
With a nod to Stephen Foster.

(a golden shovel with lines from “Poetry” by Diane Seuss)

Sliding through farmland just south of Lake Michigan, no
words can sketch the enormity of ‘hyperscale’; does it matter,
what’s lost? Nameless creeks, corn tassles, red-winged blackbirds, the  
breathy loam suffocated in its sleep? Here cricketsong lost to awful
shriek, an empire of darkness spewing terrible music,
inescapable dirge playing night and day; the groan of
gigawats greedily gulped. Or maybe it’s the
aquifer’s shudder, or beauty’s death rattle,
sonic ghost coming close,
closer.

A yellow No. 2 pencil and a crumpled pink notepad —  Corral disorder into a list – groom dogs,  wash dishes,  read Moll Flanders.  Mow, sweep, mop, weep.  Use Philips head screwdriver on monthly budget:  twist utility costs into level billing: predictability comforts.  Strings strung into a line of ability – unaided walking, self-reliance of scrubbing the toilet, cleaning the refrigerator, poop scooping the yard.  Wrap that string round and round to disguise dotage of vision with gratitude for audioboooks. Camouflage the thready core of uncertainty with physical therapy,  Gabapentin, ice packs, traction, Ultra Strength Tiger Balm on the right shoulder. A jungle of twist ties clutters contents, hides items I need – corkscrew, can opener, tape measure,  my confidence caught in the tangle.  That messy rainbow of wire must go —  worries tossed into black plastic garbage bags and hauled to psychic dumpsters. I discover a bundle of red, yellow and blue cable ties: attach tomato vines to the fence,  bird feeder to its pole, a blue tarp on the woodpile.    Espalier mulberry branches,  divide frustrations into stems:  wrestle Zoom links,  mow lawn, weed garden, trundle trash to the curb.   

Be wary of zip ties cuffing wrists to indecision.  

1
coffee shop
bursting with color
art explodes
everywhere her
exhuberance 
lives on  – Third Street

2
Devine Hip Hop
King his beats vibe
for justce his
heart breaks for kids
his mission saves

3
Jack lives under
a railroad bridge with
sleeping bags
and blankets…I leave
chocolate bars in his lair

4
rapscallions and aging
pirates
celebrating life and lust
music and booze
Thursday Night Live

5
the sign says
“Immigrants Belong Here”
Carnegie Center
where writers teach
…and thrive

    ~circa 2001 

that look just like goose necks standing
in a gaggle at the top of the steps. 

The necks of geese in basketball shirts and 90’s 
boy band haircuts. Jelled bangs. Bowl cuts.

Was this beauty or money?

A cotillion of boys who look like water fowl
gathering before the first bell, near the doric columns.

Was this beauty or having
a dad who coached a sport?

These long limbed boys laughing their faces
turned up toward the morning sun before school.

Was this having a dad who
had a sense of humor?

Was this having a dad?
Was this beauty?

These tanned, puka-shelled boys honking
at the nonsense words they made up

to say hey, this is our flocking
flock, you motherflockers.

Was this teenage heartthrob Johnathan Taylor Thomas
and Josh Hartnett? Was this living

on the edge of a golf course
or next to horses on a farm?

When the bell rings they take to the
halls, a flyway, a breeding ground,
a resource-rich habitat. Ancient. Cyclical.

1.
In the early hours of morning I witness
an interaction between two ants
on the sidewalk before me.

One so tiny, I only noticed it
by the many times larger
flake of whatsit held like a sail,

the other, a carpenter ant
even larger still.
A miniscule David vs. Goliath

on the verge battle.

2.
I was merely sitting at the bar when she spotted
my notebook–curious within the realm of alcohol–
so of course she had to come and say hello.
We closed the bar with our conversations.

Hell yeah, I got her number. I opened
an avenue for deeper discussion, different directions
then sat down at home looking at those digits like
what the hell am I supposed to do with this?

Meanwhile, the DJ’s and my first interaction that year
was a wee hour game of Cards Against Humanity.
He was so completely, hopelessly sure he had the win
but my play was far too inappropriately appropriate.

Little did I know, he had gotten the same girl’s number
and he held all the Spades in flirtation.
A week of silence on my end–unsure of what to say–
left for them all the room to build a heaven of their own.

3.
The two ants in seemingly random trajectory
happened to turn in a way head-to-head,
a meeting that saw
the larger ant rip a flake of whatsit
straight out of a tiny ant’s tiny mandibles.

In other words,
get fucked loser
you never stood a chance.

4.
Another year, another girl wandering outside
to that curious guy reading books at the pub. She asked
What’s the worst thing you have ever done?
We conversed until the Uber came to drive her home.

Hell yeah, I got her number. With an understanding
to at least try to put myself out there. She ended one night
with a sweet dreams, Phil, and I was in freefall.
At last it seemed the universe had chosen me.

Little did I know, the barkeep had also been smitten
and he had all the charisma of one who nurtures barflies
with right things to say and alluring invitations.
She discovered some nights have brighter stars than others.

5.
Tiny inconsequential David ant, I hope,
when your potentially greatest success so far
was snatched by another Goliath ant,
that you were still able to return
to the colony that gave you life,
falling back into tasks of daily upkeep–
purpose amongst adversity–
going on to find a new flake of whatsit
larger and more nourishing than the last.

6.
Growth
is coming to terms with the fact
that these people never did me any wrong
but that doesn’t mean they didn’t take some of my light.
Forgiveness is pardoning the bad and the good.

Responsibility
is recognizing
it’s not another’s job to help you shine
but oh, it gets so lonely
living as a dim and distant star,
yet labored light I emit.

Acceptance
is acknowledging
the random freeflows of sonder
and how people get thrown into each other.

Grace is seeing the truth of the matter:
-It is I who always wastes it all away, sequestered in anxious silence.
-The DJ had no clue he was not alone in his pursuit.
-I was just another open tab to that barkeep.
-The girls discerned what they wanted,
      made the best decisions for themselves.

And a Goliath ant
might simply have never seen
the David ant
eclipsed by a flake of whatsit.

You have chosen to escape to the woods

To escape the feral desires you inject yourself into of every cavern of humankind 

Hoping to find respite from your lingering thoughts

The creeping feeling of disgust that locks adhesions into your shoulders

Sleep never finds you as your heavy, hot limbs

Fumble aimlessly within the cocoon of misery laid upon your bed

Early morning rises after you

Sinking feet into a creek that slaps around your tender ankles

Hoping pleasure can find you

Or you it

Pleasure not from touch that is skin to skin

But from some other vessel far greater than your own wants

The contention of your needs pulls heavy on your heart

As if it rips, shattering your sternum, ribs cracking like eggshells

Falling into the sandy water around your feet

You dropping into the murky mess you’ve made

Knees heavy against rocks, iron laced water swirling under palms

The sensations felt as you lay your body into the water

As if Mother Earth is now your succubus

Pulling out from your low belly a guttural heave of letting go

A concubine that carries from you all your pain, anguish, sorrow, and shame

Though she carries she never holds just like the water beneath you

Spilling out into the darkness below, all swirling around, to never see again

The swelling of lust so heavy to burst through your middle

Your body like a heavy mound of pulsating friction and fire

That rolls clumsily with and through the smalls waves

A leak sprung of your manhood pathetically lost

Spirits of the trees and the wind song of the dead

Laughing at your disgrace while watching with eager eyes

Even in your solitude you can’t escape it

Forever bound to the want of releasing yourself

Never able to look in upon yourself

To be with all that you actually are

Thinking if you let this part go you’ll never need to feel connection

Your purpose never firm just like your loose morals

You will never love another because you have nothing to love about yourself