fresh with dew and fog
currants hang like so many 
quarter notes. Pairing, sharing
time and space with towhee
trills, sparrow song.

I am not an artist yet I love painting my not so pretty masterpieces.

I am not a seamstress though I love dusting off my sewing machine and making lopsided pillows.

I am not a poet yet I pull out pen and paper writing about the things that I love.

I am not a writer but I have lots of short stories about an urban farm girl assassin.

I am bad to medicore at more things that I excel at and am perfectly content with that.

I am kind, creative,love whimsy and glitter. Seriously love the glitter.

I am excited about every new day and the possiblilty at failing or succeeding at something new.

I am never going be famous or everyones cup of tea.

I am going to keep creating things that give me peace and happiness, hoping that it encourages others to do the same. 

The oldest of 14

Meant that you helped raise

Or raised

The next 13

Your daddy stole the money that you saved

Working at the neighbors farm

He took the lipstick you had hidden

He smashed it into pieces

A baby raising babies that weren’t your babies

You left the one room school house in LaGrange by grade 8

You always wanted to finish your education

But it always felt too late

Pregnant at 14, married at 15

whisked away to that farm in Hillsboro Ohio

You cried for Kentucky

For the holler, you were hollow

The tears stopped and while papaw was away

You defied every rule and taught yourself how to drive, how to shoot, and then how to drag race

In 95 you met your daughters daughter, she had your green eyes

And you were always a little worried about the size of her forehead

Age 4 I’d toddle through your front door

6 in the morning, mom was off to work

You’d wrap me in a blanket that you’d warmed in the dryer

Go back to sleep baby

I think If I could have one more nap in your covers

I’d forget what it means to be tired

Ages 5-9 I watched your every move

Making biscuits and gravy 

Always taking some to the neighbors

Your kitchen table never ran out of room

When I was 10 you moved in, and your body was slowly claimed by the reaper we called Lou

5 years I watched you suffer

There was a walker,

Then a wheelchair

My mother sat next to you holding a spoon

You refused to take a bite, and said “you eat first. It’ll be cold too soon.”

That’s who you were

A life bookended by hardship, enduring immeasurable loss and grief between

5 years a slow, wretched death

I heard you complain not once

Not about the pain, nor helplessness

Your circumstances made no difference in your patience, your gentle hand

or the shelter you offered to others, when the rain was just, so relentless

Wherever you are now, know that your daughter’s daughter

With your green eyes

Did all of the things you hoped she’d do

She came home to Kentucky and spends her days, trying her damndest to be

Just. Like. You.

I’m invisible, as if outside
the reach, the lens, of your camera—

I am a spoon to your spoon, your body
leaning away from me, your back
a concave arch, the glistening moon
pressed against me, your shoulders,
your head, against the shower wall.

Your face is mostly hidden, turned
and turning away, but frozen, glancing
back at our connection.  The steam
rises between us, around us, obscuring
the woman I would give anything–
am giving too much–
to know.

This is our truth in one photo:
A man, feeling unseen, feeling a ghost
while he begs to see more
of a woman
who holds him
outside the frame.

My hands grip your hips, unseen.
My hands glide heavily across the hot, wet
length of your torso, your breasts,
your throat, drawing you back against

me, whispering at your ear,
begging you let me inside,
you take me deeper, you let me see
who You are…

but you continue to twist in my hands,
bending away, your spine a slippery question,
your hair a serpentine secret, your curves
like unmarked paths through the jungles
of our interaction.

And every climax is a shot

stolen–

taken–

in the dark.

Step through the door of the NoName Cafe
It smells of cigars and cherry wine
Flashing lights and smoky Jazz
Fingers tobacco stained
Loui Armstrong blowing strong
Mouths wide and smiling eyes
And something bright
Fills that dark space.

Frizzle’s Jazz Club
June 2, 2024

our little helper,

searching for
                 images
              imagination
aurora mind
                 spinning

it takes a
             kaleidoscope
mandala on a 

               screen
vibrating like a singing

bowl

to stir a “renaissance of

                wonder”

that day I forgot to take
the
                  Wellbutrin
tears leaked from

eyes birthing
a new
              epiphany
I’m still

Alive

[muted burgundy jazz set]

Please, Dr. Higgins, don’t start. I’m not         asleep yet.

(faint red square pre-drawn on roof)

It’ll be         alright, baby. We’re on a schedule.

You are under arrest, sir.

All I did was film what was happening.

(bound to self metallic)

You were saying some nasty words, as well.

I don’t        remember that at all.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t         happen.

[saxophone gold jazz set]

Then they made me look ina  fisheye at my own puckering liver.

<child’s handwriting, true:> Once there was a YOU.
He liked me so he        squeezed
his         body
onto
mine and was          super nice
to          me.

[cool blue atmospheric wash]

Then she told me I sat         really well. It barely hurt.

And who will be picking you up from the police station?

A home invasion, but all they        took was a first grade composition notebook.

Are you         asleep yet? We finished the         procedure.

Still gold in the trees
and last night at dusk
in the top of the tallest one
birds alit and took off
their own lives in progress
right alongside mine.
They’re unaware of my pain
as I am unaware of theirs.
We share this.

my erection is the Philosophers Stone