Howdy doo, the beau-tee-ful
bluegrass song and field.
Banjo strummin’, heartbeat thuddin’,
Kentucky ale’s ate like a sin worth lovin’.
Yeehaw, these wild horses gallop
in southern wilderness of country men
with shotguns ready, their aim steady.
Foreigner or native? These Appalachian
mountains knows no difference, no defense
against the savagery wrought by mankind.
They brought themselves here, these white men
displacing color to each their own beauty.
Their hearts harden into black clumps of coal
that their kind wants to burn.
A wildfire burns on Jellico Mountain
like a thousand eyes glowing in the black woods,
a black velvet painting—pinpricked—the light
rippling through with such beauty, you forget
to breathe, flames blinking like luminous
creatures who live in the deep ocean lighting
their own paths. The flares lick the trees;
you feel the white heat and the rule of blaze,
you hear it as you exhale: the crackle
and sizzle, the clamor of tragedy
combusting as you drive away into the dark.
Osprey glides in, landing
on a high pine branch.
Dangling from its talons, a fish
flaps desperately, far
from its water home.
Osprey stretches
beats its great wings, eagle-like.
The bird clutches tighter, stomps
to quell the last flutter
and now, lord-like, surveys the scene:
sky infinite blue above, warmth of sun
on its wind-swept feathers.
A short flight to a nearby tree,
quarry hanging limp. Crows caw,
watchful for what might drop for them.
The feast is intermittent–
a peck–
and then a scan of the horizon,
eyes always alert. The vulture heart
always vigilant.
I hold a piece
of peach-colored coral
in my hands,
recording its rough
edges, the caverns
of the bone sponge,
the price tag.
The home goods store
is all around me
porous and thin,
the shelves shallow,
the lamps and frames
dim and false, perforated
by bullets of banality.
If only I could push
through this mesh air,
this fishing net
of halogen and bullshit.
Maybe in the next world
I would be holding
living coral, bobbing
in a cool blue ocean,
talking to sea serpents.
I can hear the waves
over the store speakers,
can taste the tropical salt
in between the gray
smudges of today.
Somewhere in the gaps,
there are impossible colors,
like something out of
the funny pages.
You think you’re an anchor?
Even if, you’re still useful,
a safe spot, tethered to many.
What can I do to keep
from living trapped inside
my head? Who should I
befriend? Who will listen
to us beat the bad feelings out
like a dusty rug, floating
to the ground. They float;
so should you. A confidant
seems the only thing we’re missing:
we have food, a roof, a lover,
dogs, community, hobbies, children.
Burden to whom? Really,
you don’t drag people down.
You’re lifting them up.
Rich folks keep their teeth until late in life.
“Rich Folks, Poor Folks, and Neither” Jim Harrison
with a mouth three teeth short of a box of Chicklets™
I lean on the dental school’s emergency clinic.
I sit agape below scrutiny and a surgical light.
Faculty says, “Consistent care…”
but they don’t tell me how I’d pay.
I ask about any studies;
they shake their masked heads.
My mouth wanes, never waxes.
Two more speciments cry for unaffordable care.
Five years between visits yet no tartar.
I baffle them — my anomalous mouth confuses experts.
“Brush your tongue,” they say.
Of course, I brush my tongue.
How else could my poems come out?
He went AWOL
one night. Left us
a dead mouse
on the deck —
didn’t want
anyone to think
he’d forgotten
where he lives.
So we stapeled
plastic netting
over all the spaces
between the posts.
See how long
it takes him
to figure that out.
For Wisława Szymborska and Richard Drew
I huddled on the floor before the television set
Safe in Kentucky
Weeping
Bearing witness until my husband turned off the broadcast
The falling
bodies
burned
into my retinas
Heart aching for lessons not learned
In the room with slanted walls everything falls
Apart, not at the corners as prophesied by our holy text,
The instruction manual, but like clouds
Tugged from a dandelion.
That’s why you have to hold yourself Together.
Glue doesn’t determine
The rupture, the prolonged disassembly.
I know it’s not the room
I walked Into, but that’s ok: coordinates shift
At the drop of a mask—from anhedonia
To balmy psychotropics.
The Pain Killer stalks the halls
Armed with muzzles and maps to nowhere,
Encapsulated bliss;
It knows no art, just numbers,
Unpeeling zeroes from hundreds,
The room’s contours dissolve number
And number as new claims are staked,
Furniture plucked away one-by-one to star
In pawn shop windows and new rooms out-of-context..
