It is very cold tonight
& there is nothing you can do, Laverne
but give her $60 & drive away
having no idea where she’ll sleep
you lean over your desk
rest your forehead in your hands
a familiar feeling
that anxiety in your stomach
that knot
that hollow hunger
it’s been there before
how selfish of you, Laverne
helping
in order to
get reprieve.
something rustles the floorboards
the house doesn’t feel like home
we hope to kill these two birds
with one fanged creature
so we adopt a kitten
who we name Oedipus
think maybe we’ll call him Rex
but he only answers to Puss Puss
falling asleep with the TV on
I jolt awake to a goblin’s gobble
toothy crunch of cat food in the corner
but my pet slumbers beside me
head a cloud of confusion
my eyes focus on a rat
the size of Texas
and I scream
yesterday a box turtle
looked up
at the man of dust
kept his neck stuck
all the way out
his red eyes
like air quotes
as if to say:
‘excuse me, sir
what’s all this about?’
with unhinged brows
in wild punctuation
the dusty man
discarded:
‘it’s twenty twenty four-
your kind
should know
by now’
then
he slid his neck halfway back
inside
his emphasis- a sluggish dash
in turtleish reply:
‘we’ve never really
had
to think like this
before-
even though
we’ve always had shells.
this
is
the first
its
felt so
endsome-
somehow.’
You have your own way of looking at things I have mine
We can share to the depth of our being from our own view point
never though can we replicate with any truth and spirit each others horizon
to bring each to the truest place of self is this this is why
we stand alongside the best of us to the best of us look out across each others horizon
carry if necessary
bring to wonder awaken to day
know this is could it be it could be all and everything
from the sputum spitting smoker’s cough
or the woodsman’s splintering ax.
We’re all in pieces.
You can run through a field with the wind in your hair
And let your troubles fly free
Punch your fist in the air like a big angry bear
To show them all that you need
You can sit by yourself with sun on your skin
Let the pain go like the falling of leaves
You can do all of this and do all of that
But you can’t catch a fish in a tree
You can walk many paths and touch many stones
Frolic with birds and the bees
Kiss all the frogs…. hang with the dogs
And laugh as you shake off the fleas
You can take in the talk but if they don’t walk the walk
Time is a waistin’ you see
You can do all of this and do all of that
But you can’t catch a fish in a tree
Hold out for the best, don’t nestle for less
For my goddess you are a queen
When you know it’s not right, you’ll sleep great at night
And nothing’s more lovely than peace
Wait for the one who is the yen to your yang
It will be worth every moment indeed
You can do all of this and do all of that
You can’t catch a fish in a tree
Lo, movement like the film reel,
the palpitation twisting. I saw you-
macropsic, thrown up the walls,
distorted. My body does not do
what I think it should.
I find understanding in relation-
Quadraphonic to your image.
Instead of going to class,
we push power strip carts
from room to room,
armed with laminated hall passes,
and I do my
best to try to fall in love with you.
The bus takes me home,
secret stash of stolen library tapes
in my backpack. You don’t listen to cassettes,
something about the richness of vinyl.
It’s strange to me, usually I’m the one living
with one foot in the past.
At night in my room,
my projector mind hums and shudders,
and I stare at my Sally Ride poster
and try to imagine
being your nagging wife.
I’m not sure what my problem is-
I’ve never met a more perfect boy.
You don’t try to talk to me about sports
only movies, comic books, music.
Even though I’ve watched you
turn into a man,
I still don’t believe it.
When we go to the drive-in,
and we do go often,
I keep my eyes trained on the screen-
Never at the cars beside us,
Never at the couples inside them-
So I don’t have to wonder why
my stomach drops when he
slides his hand up the back of her neck.
So I don’t have to ask why
you aren’t touching me.
So I don’t have to ask why
I don’t want it. Not like that.
The humidity fuss of her sunflower
rattled in the recent mizzle turned tornado
since a clipper dipped down from Dakota
causing closed highways and F4 winds.
Her grip on the wheel’s adroit, open position
turning left, she mentions nitrogen and oxygen
atoms. Panic of weather radio’s urgent basement
shelter. The city made vacant. Tattered ends,
the thrushes of her bangs vibrate, she says “air
is an insulator” in the Post Dispatch gale.
A lone cop car passing slow,
like some love poem,
through the braille of scattered vehicles
peppering the median.
