Posts for June 5, 2026 (page 2)

#1 Fair Is

Fair is
Fairest will
Fair is wheel
Ferris wheel
Fair is not real
Fairest will always get the upper hand
Fair is a wheel—
a hidden driving force behind systems
Ferris wheel— a perpetual cycle, highs and lows, but still
only going round and round,
but no forward progression
I’m spent on this attraction—
financially and physically.

#2 “Did You Speak?”

The Black hello—or, speaking, as some may say—
is not worth much these days.
Respect seems optional,
or younger folks are oblivious.
It was once taught to acknowledge the ones who look like us.
To show solidarity in spite of the treatment from the ones who don’t look like us.
Because back then, we had each other’s backs.
Now, in a time where things are rolling back,
with blatant -isms present in person and online;
We’ve got to come together for the sake of our future and grow.
Let’s start with the minimum,
A head nod,
handshake,
“How you doin’?”,
or simply, “Hello.”

After turning by Lucille Clifton

This dangerous season
Grows heavy on the vine
Swelling with potential
Anticipation sweet on the tongue
The urge to pluck unripened fruit looms.

crawdads snails and striders
in pockets of droughted creek
with Evyn, who has been kind
since childhood, and wanting
to be that kind, the kind
of creature who bursts through
the water and makes grown
women laugh like babies
at Gulf Shores, remembering
their entire lives in full
upon the glance of a dolphin,
to be a knight in shining promises
pilling irises behind the miracle
that wishes you home one more
time before the firing squad
assassinates. turning to feel
the bonfire on the calves.
listening to Ocean talk or Ada
read. the pink bruise of meaning
kiss. understanding the joke.

Back

to

fingers

counting beats

on my desk keyboard.

Songs begin to bleed in cut time.

granny prayed tirelessly for hours on end,
while bakin biscuits and pickin blackberries
always worried, she’d leave out a name
an they’d surely be struck down
if she didn’t drop the dishes right then, gather us all up
to join hands an pray

papaw’s palm sat heavy in my right,
granny’s cold and slender, full up of ruby rings
linked in my left 
everyone meant to mumble their prayers aloud 
all at once 

this part was always easiest if it was just us three,
without the added holdout of chuckles
against my brother and cousin,
as we squeeze each other’s hands, hard as we can,
tryin not to be the first to end our prayers 

“Amen”, we’d have to say, 
keepin our heads bowed down
as granny kept listin out every person she’d ever met 
to be sure they’d not burn in hell 

sometimes i’d try to keep up with the names,
see if i knew a Mary Ann Sue, an what relation, almost wantin to ask 
at the end of the prayer 

knowin the picture books would come out 
an she’d be bound to call up somebody, i never did 
i’m now prayin i had 

Blessed are those who are empty.

Blessed are those with nothing to offer but the aching of their lonely bones and quieted sighs as it hushes past their lips.

Blessed are those whose chasms of the soul have unearthed bedrock, for how much more now are they to be filled?

Blessed are those who grieve, bereaved in the dust of their disappointment.

Blessed are those who mourn through the rising and setting sun like a broken dove, circadian irrhythm.

Blessed are those whose souls know wilderness is meant to unwind the flesh’s talons along their spine, not a place they must spend the rest of time.

Blessed am I as I hit the window, again and again like an asinine cardinal, and blessed am I all the more as I realize I am not meant to stay in the emotional burnout of this disappointment.

Blessed am I as he prepares a table for me in the presence of my enemies.

And blessed am I as I dine.

Do oysters treasure their pearls
or suffer them?

Are the growing gems 
   a constant annoyance?
   an out of place wrinkle?
   an incessant itch?
   or a comfort,
         something to hold on to?

Do they have a mother’s pride in
   their luster?
   their shape?
   their size?

With some species 
cultured pearls are harvested
and the oyster is reseeded,

like bitches in a puppy mill.
   
   
   

My rogue is cool with fun, 

is able to hide while on the run, 

I have to roll to check,

20 side die, what the heck,

Its a natural one. 

My next-door neighbor taught her flowers how to talk.
They think I cannot hear them with my human ears,
but I hear them whispering.
They gossip and spread rumors.
I know they hate my cat.
They think the garden gnome is ridiculous.
I learned what terrifies them.
One day I walked over to them and said,
“You better watch what you say.
I’m bigger than you, and
I have access to chemicals.”
I haven’t heard a peep
out of them since.

cigarettes, one after the other, and I miss stepping
     alone into the sun or the dark, apart from others
          who had better sense than I did.   

I admit it: I miss the nicotine, even while telling            
     myself between puffs that this dependency                        
          would not be bad for me. Look at my father:  

He smoked 65 years in a row, from the time
     he was 9 years old, and sure, OK, he had some
          emphysema in the end, but that’s not what killed  

him. My friend Ron used to say a little nicotine was good
     for you, but I never got the hang of just a little nicotine.
          The blast of that first cigarette after breakfast  

with a second cup of black coffee is unparalleled. I miss
     smoking in my car. I miss finding the secret smoking places
          where smoking is banned. Hospitals are especially tricky.  

Once I followed two nurses through the corridors
     after I heard one of them say “let’s go smoke.”
          We exited by a side door onto a sad alley  

with benches and ashcans, a half dozen people in scrubs
     studying their phones, cigarettes balanced
          between their fingers; their patients languishing  

inside. My own mother was dying upstairs
     while I was smoking outside with hospital staff.
           Still, I miss huddling with others in frigid cold  

while the smoke scorches our lungs. I don’t wish to glamorize
     it like some old black and white movie filled
          with cigarette smoke. Even the stench  

of it—I never thought of it as nasty. I miss
     the planning: check my pack, where’s my lighter?
          Always arranging to burn the next one.