Posts for June 7, 2026 (page 5)

On the packed patio of a Mexican restaurant 
my hair is damp in waves, undulating snake
in the soft kiss of cigarette wind, still sticky humid
with a rain that won’t come. Your margarita
shimmers, crystals of ice crushed, salt lick.
The waitress laughs at my bottle of Splenda,
I guzzle tea like it’s an antidote to any suffering.
Sunglasses aid in a dissociation, douse the scene
in a purple haze, diffuse the runoff of a melting sun.
Light warps on glittery skin. I watch the people
and the cars down the slope past the parking lot.
Someone is always dying, this is the popular
ambulance route. Sirens crackle distant over chatter,
but it has nothing to do with me. The sparrows
have no sorrow, scarfing grains of softened rice
scattered beneath the mesh of metal tabletops.
They hop and dodge patrons’ legs, flit to the gutters.
I could join, skittish, small, decorate myself in feathers.
Lord knows I drown in enough tar to make it stick.
You scroll endless news reels on your phone, the ice
in your complimentary water dissolving, sweat beads
dripping off the glass and down your exposed thigh. I avert
my gaze from any slight glimpse of horror, try to focus,
lemon between my teeth, happy to breathe in air.

You taught me that living means taking care of others.
Your voice was smooth as mud pies, 
your hands chapped from wringing water
from our laundry. Your smile was kind,
white as linen blowing in the wind.
A wicker laundry basket on your hip, broken clothespins. 
I want to live. I miss the smell of dirt.

my moments are filled with pain,
pain that drew full attention to my face,
eyes, eyebrow, and forehead,
strain that didn’t reset when I woke up the next day,
days in a row of suffering,
on the cusp of uncomfortable dryness.

The hurt of my eyes and forehead
are a close and sturdy memory,
I am afraid of an encore.
I face an electric fence and wishes won’t disarm it.
Wishes won’t unlink cause and effect,
each action an interlocking link,
solidifying the outcome day after day.

Enduring pain is not a swap I can make
to return to my past comforts—
reading thousands of words of fanfiction,
reveling in the emotions and toils of the stories and characters,
more comforting than hugging a fluffy stuffed animal
or drinking warm soup
or inviting the silence of an empty room into my mind—
so I look back at my past self,
rush of water and cricket chirps in my ears,
across a rocky river, too dangerous to cross.

The nightmare on Greentree is an everchanging
smellscape. Is it hookah, or cumin,
or 60 years of swamp gas
bubbling
to the surface ? 

(Prompt: Stopwatch, Limes, Shoelace, Mahogany)

Tick. Tick. Tick.
Every second counts
backwards, forwards, two dimensional
time in space. You hold depth,
the third dimension.

Tick. Tick. Tick. 
Time is life’s currency. Spend it
like your life depends on it—it does,
breathing time like air, squeezing lungs
like limes against tongues, embittered.

Tick. Tick. Tick. 
The years pass and you let your life amass
in concentric circles, looping and spinning,
circular reasoning and tight little knots,
like scabby shoelaces never undone.

Tick. Tick. Tick.
Cruel, unforgiving world. You harden organically,
like a redwood tree withstanding the test of time,
stiff and seasoned as cold-cut mahogany.
You shall stand here as long as the logger allows.

Tick. Tick. Ti—

“What does your past taste like?”

Summertime
immediately
came to mind

It was a hot place
yet damp
and it tasted like rain

you could almost
drink the air
on humid days

forcing me
to swim
down the street

to the corner store
for a chilly root beer
sink to the floor

take a long sip
with eyes closed
and head back

as I formed a child’s
concept of what
something “heavenly”
truly meant

Because dancing on my tongue
every carbonated bubble was
blissful and devine

While living
in New Orleans
In the summertime

     I don’t know where I’m running now
     I’m just running on/
     Trying not to confuse it,
     With what you do to survive
     (Browne, 1977)

Absolute perfect timing
For that unexpected 4AM weekend run into work
When I’m already feeling mentally and physically exhausted
And forgot to stop for gas

I desperately want to come in,
I am begging at your heart’s front door.
Do you need an ardent declaration?
You’re all I’ve ever wanted and more.

I am begging at your heart’s front door.
I am standing before you with outstretched hands
You’re all I’ve ever wanted and more.
But I’m so reserved you’re unsure where I stand

I am standing before you with outstretched hands
You say you want to believe what’s between us —
But I’m so reserved you’re unsure where I stand
I am who I am. I don’t need to come out, but

You say you want to believe what’s between us —
Do you need an ardent declaration?
I am who I am. I don’t need to come out, but
I desperately want to come in.

They wander the streets
Aimless in physical direction
Guided instead by supernatural force
Their mouth begets strange wisdoms
Their eyes see through the body and into the soul
Whispers of past and future fill their mind
Nonsense to mortals
Nonsense perhaps to the immortals, too
Complexities impossible to apply to life
Embedded into one no different than us
O child of Cassandra,
Will you also be driven mad?

The dog and I

are a constant clown show.

I throw one ball,

she brings me back a different one.

I throw the ball three times

and she fetches it.

I throw the ball a fourth time

and she jumps up into my lap

instead,

a non-sequitur.

She wants to play fetch

but won’t let go of the ball

and growls if I try to take it

or even just pet her head.

She tries to play tug

with a ball

instead of a toy.

When I stand up,

she steals my chair.

She barks to be fed

the second we walk in the house.

I make her pay the tax

before I feed her,

leaning down to

plant a kiss on her forehead.

She goes to her crate

after breakfast

but rushes back

into the kitchen

when she hears me

pouring cereal,

waiting patiently

for her share of Cheerios.

She dances in circles

in front of the door,

making it almost impossible

to attach the leash to her collar.

She interrupts our walk

to roll around in the grass.

She herds me where she wants me,

pushing me with her body.

We howl together

as a nightly bonding ritual.

We take mutual naps,

me nodding off in the chair,

her at my feet.

She lays on Mommy’s spot on the bed

even if it means laying on top of Mommy.

It may not be the greatest show on earth

but it’s my favorite.