“I’ll take care of it.”
Said with a smile and a nod
Meant to hide the resentment growing in my belly
But it’s true.
I’ll take care of it.
I always do.
I always have.
I probably always will.
I will bear the weight of our mother’s carelessness
And the heat of our father’s rage.
I will play piggy bank when it makes sense
Just to be forgotten when I lack cents.
I’ll sprawl my name across your “list of people that owe me something.”
It’ll be written in blood.
I’ve been spotted.
Screaming,
I run for my life.
They chase me down.
I cower and cry
like a child.
Damn seagulls.
Like torpedoes,
they took my hot dog,
a victim
of unfriendly fire.
Help me pray in a way to help
you listen. For all the people
I want to help and the good
I want done. There’s nothing more
I want than for you to see
how much I love my neighbor and
all that. Find all the noble qualities
you can and magnify them in me.
Give me a bleeding for others.
Help me pray in a way that doesn’t
question your judgment.
fragrance of roses
colors of sunset and sunrise
cactus spines, thin and thick, hurt
sound of rain, pounding on the roof
start and end days by thanking the universe
for _________ (can be one or many things)
vinegar has many uses
(cleans, deodorizes, disinfects, pickles, alleviates sunburn sting)
choose reading and/or writing over cleaning
(always, always, always)
controlling your breath controls your body and emotions
(shoulders back, fill your lungs, and COUNT)
baby steps take you further than sweeping resolutions
(babies fall, get back up, start again, on repeat)
keep an aloe plant alive and nearby
(for emergencies)
Something happened when we fled to the cities
piling into skyscrapers
plugged into screens
ushered asleep by the staccato street sounds
bathed in the blue light ambiance
we fell into a collective slumber
something, again, happens when we return
a wildflower revivial brought back to awareness
by the buzz of honey bees
somehow I can hear God again
when at the top of a grassy mountain bald
like promixity to the sky boosts the signal
I simply needed a creek comunion
and a golden pollen baptism
to be lured back to life by nature’s catechism
a sacred scripture
of earthen sounds, smells, and sensations
that seep in and settle in your bones
home again
forsaken at
point nemo,
i drug myself
through
hadal waters
fighting my way
towards
the shoreline
with only
the currents
to guide me.
the ocean,
too unforgivable
a thing
for search
and rescue.
my charybdal
heart not worth
the risk of
the best of men.
and here,
i hoped
they’d be
looking
for me,
to pull me from
the tides.
hair wet,
skin shriveled,
water expunging
the sin from
my mouth.
yet,
for all that
drifting,
i was still
more sea witch
than survivor.
my feet hit sand,
stumbling upon
the coastline
depth-dazed,
i am met
with anchor
and chain.
the seaweed
forced
between my
teeth,
my head
plunged
underwater
so they can
pretend at
god.
i become
salt to sea,
the dissolving
of myself into
spindrift
until nothing
ancient is
left.
until no man
can make me
become what
i am no longer.
It is morning
and I am in the middle room
of our City Shotgun
Where the bullets are kept
in the darkest chamber
I am not letting
more light in —just leaving
the inch wide glow
from the window
where the curtains
don’t meet
I leave off the electricity
keeping it dimly lit
It is the way
I think a
poem requires
to enter
unsuspecting
of the giant bear trap
waiting between
my pen nib and paper
So I wait for a poem
to slip in close
on the back
of a shadow thought
or with its ankles caught in
the vibratory trill
from the song
of a fog born ghost
sailing on a floating leaf
in the lagoon
of lost loves
as she combs
her long hair
with fingers spread
soothing and nourishing
the world
with her beauty
I crane to hear
her voice
I fear she might hear me
for surely she listens too
knowing the Sun
will take over the day soon
She closes her eyes
and delights
in the liminal space
for her last few moments
of visibility
As do I—
Sitting in this chair
hand hewn by
an ancient craftsman
No poem yet,
but I think
I will wait here
at this table
believing there
is a feast within
where the
wood grain
outdates us all
I watch how
it maps
beneath my
hovering hand
I tried to run away
to the shining, towering city.
I tried to pray,
begged something holy to take pity.
It was foolish to think
there exists a power higher
than the mountains that gently sink
to embrace those we buried prior.
As surely as they wear down,
they raised me to love
like the people of my little town
that greed nearly disposed of.
So, here I stand:
home once more,
barefoot upon ancestral land.
Suddenly, there’s someone to stand for.
I found them gasping for air
beneath smothering kudzu vines.
The mountains hear my prayer
for the children of the mines.
Would you look at
the tension in her elbow? There she sits,
cuffed and ironed, white blouse and wool skirt.
pin-wrapped hair, a don’t-come-any-closer posture,
flame-red flats lifting the weight of her independence.
…but haze-filled indecision still lingers…
Grown Men,
smelling of aftershave and tobacco,
adjust their belted necessity and wait for her
to understand reason, their vision.
Can’t she see that all morning they have
wasted paper, and this case
is about profit.
And then…
there is Stan- a young man who
gave his brown hair a fresh combing before
grabbing his wife’s pencil from
the ‘for emergencies’ notepad in the hallway of
their inherited starter home.
Who cares about any verdict when
it is a September Friday, and tonight,
while the White Sox go deep, there will be
cold meatloaf sandwiches, sliced thick on warmed sourdough?
– a response to Norman Rockwell’s 1959 Saturday Evening Post cover, The Holdout.
