Posts for June 6, 2026 (page 4)

Mama sat me in front of her
on that chocolate American quarter horse
the man of the house and sissy rode
the other great rescue.

We sat high and mighty
in our Kentucky holler.

Those unkept hooves galloped
on gravel past the pond
to the field at the end of our road.
Bluegrass never touched the bottoms of my feet.

Wasn’t long before we got rid of those
innocent beasts.
Mama sold them as is.

Never said
how we were all
turning to skin and bones.

That was the thing about Mama.

She always did the best she could,
never wanted us girls
to see her powdered nose,
always said, “I’m better now. Clean.”

Us girls,
all we could do was watch

her gentle ribs
waving goodbye in the wind.

“You must do something to make the world more beautiful. ” — Barbara Cooney, Miss Rumphius 

The Lupine Lady scatters
seeds around the emerald
edge of her seaside town.

Helped by wind and fowl,
they sprout all over. Children
gather the blooms as they grow—
veritable armfulls of violet
and indigo.

I wonder again at the mystery
that gave the flower its name.

Is it because of its snout-like shape,
elongated and tapered, ending
in a tight-lipped maw? Because its palmate
leaves look like tiny claws?
Is there violence in its violet petals,
wolfish hunger in its predatory stalks?

The lupines tell the children: if you want
to make the world more beautiful,
you first must learn to howl.

       there lies a pistol

swaddled in velvet & nestled between cement blocks. 

the clip is slick with the cold sweat of anticipation.

       there lies a litter of kittens — two stillborn,

two clawing//crying at an empty November sky.

their eyes sealed & bodies starving.

       there lies two gold-headed children 

in eggshell linens stained earthen and sanguine. 

with legs scraped raw, tangled in figure-eights.

       there lies two pale bodies coated in splotches,

horsefly sores//coagulated blood//mud & pine sap

fingerpaints//sweat that never stops pouring//semen while

“I smell sex & candy here…”

loops on the radio up the gravel road, 

seeps downhill–unto our empty ears as

        their lies slip & slide

through the wrinkles of our brains 

and zip right back out the flies of our Levi’s.

      their lies 

result in the kind of unknowing 

that makes our bodies dangerous

It was a ritual of beauty.
Grandma’s hands carefully brushed Nana’s soft hair
Towel covered shoulders sat regal upon the modestly high stool reserved for this purpose.

A pointed top of a silver bottle, blunt tip cut.
The shaken bottle spelled out lines on my great grandmother’s scalp.
Starkly pink against the purple silver solution,
Row  by row grandma sowed seeds of smelly beauty
An hour later, white hair

Now within  my own gray i emerge the caretaker.

Pride of the Northside.
Pride in the Northside.
Pride through the Northside.
I don’t feel home anywhere else.
From Bryan Station to Greyline Station.
If you know, you know.
“Norf Norf.”
Winburn, Marlboro, Radcliffe, Brookfield Chase, Green Acres, Hollow Creek, Coldstream, Castlewood, Arlington, Lengends Park, Fairlawn, Mary Todd, Strawberry Fields, North Point, Deep Springs, Kenawood, Russell Cave, Mattoxtown, Anniston, and everywhere in between.
Once a Defender,
ALWAYS A DEFENDER!
I defend what I love.
I love where I’m from.
From our struggles to triumph.
Can’t nobody do it like us.

I gave you too much
to bear — you sustained me still. 
And refused to tear

Painted my nails, already chipped
I forgive you for
biting me, breaking the skin
It hurt, it always hurts,
but I wasn’t careful enough
to avoid your teeth
Right at the edge of my
thumbnail,
blood pooled gross and red
under the whites of it
Washed my hands twice, again
and then cleaned my bathroom,
bleach and comet and elbow grease
I’ll see you again Monday
and this time I hope I remember
to avoid your playful mouth

If you came here looking for a real Kentuckian, you might have to get out of the city.

In the city they’ve flattened the mountains and covered up the creeks.

They’ve deforested the hollers and the plantations have expanded into stripmalls.

The real Kentuckians are hanging their lives off a building to collect a little bit of history before it’s ground into dust.

The Real Kentuckian has an arrowhead collection.

The Real Kentuckian can tell you three good stories involving critters.

There are some echoes here still, in the city.

Somewhere there are some wild things still growing, black raspberries, orange newts, back by the cold, sweet, mossy creek
cutting itself down a dark and misty mountain

A king named Cartesian sits on a plane
His chamber a point, his sceptre a line
Direction is moot, his town has no signs
He walks home drunk his crown hung in shame
Barren is his throne, his life has no aim
On an infinite walk, with infinite time
But will his queen wait? Will she sit affine?
She’ll polish his crown, keep his hearth aflame.

The math says of course, for that is a fact
Vectors on a plane will return his crown
But his queen is his point, he, her hero
Tearful, she mourns, not sure when he’ll be back.
Mrs. Cartesian resolves, with a frown
Q of N plus one equals zero