I eat sunlight as if raspberries
as if sweet candy  taken in great gulps
a child with no restraint
I’ve missed a lesson in the body’s propensities for reaction

nearly upon us the solstice  bittersweet
turning goes on unabashed
my hands clench to keep the days
long  warm  tender  alive

they’ve said it is necessary 
I do agree  yet that has no meaning when doors close
windows lock  all heads turn inward  tightly bound toward protection 

now is the time   this masterclass in living to one’s fullest wildest potential

in recent years I’d become numb  empty
knowing something  there to discover
get curious  again  again  creation perhaps  earth’s

again  I kept searching  it’s what I have  right
hoping 
believing
trusting
the miopic view of endings  lies

turning  toward perpetuated becomings
easing  mind’s fraught alighting over inconsistent surfaces

plants do that
their continuous growth  a lesson in longevity 

living  densely  I am offered a chance
more than one 
to re member myself to continuity
the fact of my nature
this natural habitat
delight

You knew better
yet surfed the wave blindly
until it
crashed on you,
stealing friends
and memories to
the abyss deep and new
your pointless yelps
wash you back
to the feet
of the beast
you know better
and yet

Waning moon, 2 a.m.
Side swiped, tired
Beleaguered from all that shining
Wants to lay it down
Before he does it all again

Lift of a kite – whimsically in pillowy
scraps & nonsensical paper
twists, trailing 8-times its length.

The peculiar Richard Babley, nicknamed
Mr. Dick, was weighed down
by the troublesome thoughts of King Charles I,

although the monarch had been recently
beheaded. The way a father
strict father can stomp over the footprint

of an eager to please son, the way
a strict math teacher quells
the contemplative questions

of a young student.  Mr. Dick
schemed with David to build a kite
with long side tails trailing, embellished

with paper swatches from King Charles’
funeral. They glide like ragged bellwethers
above the rocky beach. King Charles

is finally released. Wind whips
the ascending kite, propels it toward
to the stratosphere & rewrites the script.

Insects

                                        This feral pressure of diamond making, 
                                        these alabaster-winged fireflies cover the yard,
                                        and weigh down the garden with their legs at night.

Blue, Federico, write of my favorite color. Blue—like Noah’s planet 
at a pop—delicacies are dreams I dream, paired with blue, crawling 
scar’s lengths up my legs & such wings on green things never seen,
green hums dissolving, birds at feeders thrumming an unplucked zither 

sounding the sex of scarabs sliding in a scuttling seraglio, or ventriloquism, 
my Mamí & her hands groping handle & cord—shorted—a slurping electric 
sweeper pleading—who watches hijito, who cares for me vacuuming every day?
My anger at this is a circle, waiting for a new woman hidden inside a root—

She is a tumble-down brown, red delicious toward new beginnings in the fall,
while my intrepid sister climbs peaks to meet Abominable Elohim, & the other 
juggles her gaggle, three championees of all ages with ease. None of these 

my doing, none of these & my tiresome wife—she laughs, you can’t get it up!
Papí keeps crickets for the iguana that terrify Mamí—she siphons them 
with a Dyson. I could be hungry as an aardvark, but I ain’t that hungry yet—

Chicago rises from ashes, tall 
buildings scraping now-hidden sky.

National character built – hardship, 
generosity, new frontiers.

Now begins conquest of darkness
passing of era, its namesake queen.

But Pittsburgh a filthy city, 
sewer waste running into river

Factories burning coal spewed smoke,
until darkened sun refused to shine.

Masses arriving for jobs, children of twelve
working late into night.

Age of invention, science hailed as truth
Henry Ford’s well-oiled machine

Burning and ice packs and waiting.

My whole life is

burning and ice packs and waiting

for at least another month.

I hate that I am

memorializing this

in a poem.

Because I never want to remember

burning and ice packs and waiting.

Blue grass and big hearts
Barefoot summers 
That go on forever
Fingers stained dark
From picking berries
Ripe from the bush
Warmed by the sun

Tobacco and thoroughbreds
First Saturday in May
And those horses fly
My Old Kentucky Home
On all our tongues
An anthem that lingers
In our very souls

Deep forests and calm waters
Fishing boats on the lake
Vibrant leaves in the fall
The quiet peace of winter
Covering us like a blanket
Until it’s time to thaw again

The fifteenth state; born in June
The most beautiful place
A commonwealth for all
Where we standed united
As blue blood Kentuckians