Posts for June 4, 2026 (page 17)

Miss Olive Oil
is her name.
A rat terrier
with neighborhood fame.

She walks the gravel
without any fear.
At 19 years old,
she can barely hear.

But there is no stopping
this girl of mine.
She is strong-willed
and obnoxious at times.

She loves her cookies,
at least 6 per day.
If she doesn’t get one,
don’t get in her way.

The ears go back,
and she turns with a huff.
Marches to her bed,
a real pissed-off pup.

With that side-eyed stare,
looking up as I pass.
She makes me feel guilty
and wants to kick my ass.

Oh Miss Olive Oil,
you love your treats.
Still at 19 years old,
cookies are all you want to eat.

of unfailing, timely arrival, 
of east to west,
of twilight to morn,
of drought and grain,
of bloom and bleach,
of maternal warmth,
of vengeful incineration,
of calendar and tradition,
of worship and loathing,

I will finally fall asleep again 
beneath the aurora.

We gnaw at our global apple,
the starved worm of our curiosity
digging past roots of old knowledge,
spitting the seeds of ancient cities.

So vested in our investigations,
we dig through ancient Serdica
through stone stacked on bone,
emerging short of any coveted shore,
just shy of New Zealand.

But New Zealand was never new anyway,
just like here is always somebody’s there –
just a name for the end of a worm’s zealous tunnel.

So we’d surface to sink
into nonchalant waves.
That is, if we don’t first dissolve
into the mute molten metal,
the core of iron and nickel
pulling us inward –
the magnetic force of all burning questions,
a furious force
to melt all but hunger.

pestling novel noise,

Counting tendrils 

on the popcorn ceiling,

I raise my hand in

an orchestral fashion 

and the ground 

pulls me 

to the sky. 

Phasing through 

like a spectre, 

I watch over you.

Your birdnested bangs. 

Your eyeshadow 

frosted, 

glued to the lids.  

Your body like rippled 

velvet; I will drag these

ghastly hands across your

pale skin and 

learn to push down 

this wanting for more.

Woman strokes flat belly, rocks a lullaby, heart skips like banjo bones.

On the turn
around he nods
to me,

my time to solo

kindly please
I ask,
give me

twice round,
guitar man, leader
of the band,

twelve bars of blues
ain’t enough
to cut through

I’m gonna need
to close my eyes
and ease into

this groove
I’m asking please
grant me reprieve,

maybe this once
even three

times round,
a little space
to breathe

into this hand
sized harp I cup and
start to softly play:

give me that bass
oozing slow and steady,

give me that twisted
gnarled beat,

give me those
guttural bends
on your guitar strings

let me weave
these secrets
I’ve kept

under wraps
unexpressed
locked in my chest,

under the influence
of love loss, hard liquor,
fine weed

weave them all
into a pentatonic
tapestry

What does the tongue know?

perfect body ribboned and embroidered      even before
the music starts she talks to you         to anyone within range
a warm smile of childlike teeth     shiny ponytail    a few wisps by her ears
the music has her bopping in her chair         she can’t help herself
one arm flies up   wrist waving         her body follows and she is
doing her own dance     wiggle of hips and bum   
shoulders and breasts shimmy      she waves a smile
at the fiddle player      when the moment strikes her                                           
                     
                           you can’t look away

the music done     she throws arms around your neck
one of those tight body hugs you feel all over
she says she is 45 but you can only think of toddlers
their elation once they start to crawl and walk and bounce
“The world is my oyster” was the description from neo-Freudian
Margaret Mahler         indeed the world seems to be hers to relish
this child of 45      certain that any one of us wants
nothing more than to hear her chatter    follow her
pony tail      bouncing before the band