In companion to Picasso’s Head of a Woman (Fernande)
Light stomping, clomping down each high point of the bronze face heel first
sharp rips of features a tatter of a nose undulating bulbs along the scalp the eyes are hallowed punctures a god with an ice axe crafting as best he can
or is it exactly as he intends?
Robins are a nasty bird.
When I look at one up close—all scraggly
and fluster hoppy—I often find
myself saying, “Robin, you’re gross.”
I say it in a cute little voice, like a prank
or an admission of fetish.
But I’m dead fucking serious.
Anyway, I doubt they hear me.
Usually this is through a window or
inside a car. And besides, obviously,
they don’t speak English.
There were mated cardinals in the garden
of my last home. I like saying
“mated cardinals” because it sounds
like I know what I’m talking about.
But, I mean one was Crayola red
and one was demurely beiged out—like
a cardinal on sepia filter—and they
flitted around together, especially
on Friday and Saturday nights.
Here, at my new home, I just saw a raven
perch literally in the ONE dead tree
across the back alley. Classic. I grabbed
a pen.
Now, the evening light is beginning
and I’m watching the swallows swoop—
the faintest skim coat of mountains
on the distant horizon.
Yes, that’s right. I’m
just sitting here watching the swallows as I
swallow. It doesn’t go any further.
Not everything has to.
I
know
I can’t
stop the change
avalanching toward
my poor worn sense of correctness.
Message For The Phlebotomist
Making conversation
Two ruby shoes–
each cobbled
from
a single
red sequence.
Sitting alone in the corner,
your body a red canister below wings forever frozen,
your pinchers raised, ready to fight.
In a deep ditch
Of a stream
Folded up
in a field beside a barn’s wall
Like a Raggedy Ann doll,
A doe,
Collapsed..blood oozing out of her mouth
Headed for healing waters.
Dead—–
Over the road bank
Beside a stream
Heaped up
beside a wrecked truck’s open door
Like a Raggedy Andy doll,
A brother,
Neck boken–blood oozing out of his mouth
Headed for healing doctors
Dead—.
In my dreams, a meteorite breaks my way, says Rock.
She sings like a statue. She laughs like a mountain.
When I wake, she goes back to the world she came from.
In my dreams, calculations cover me, says Paper.
They tell a story that ends with men
handing my green friends to other men.
In my dreams, I cut paper, says Scissors,
into the shape of my mother, blades far apart,
Doctor, doing a karate move called a scissors kick.
Having
been paid in cash,
he wasn’t eligible for workers’ compensation
from being injured falling off a ladder.
Rent became unaffordable.
He moved
into a shared a room.
Who drank my milk, ate my food?
He left.
Moved in
with his sister til she COVID lost her job.
Not wanting to be a burden ,
he moved out.
Slept
in his van until it got towed
due to unpaid parking tickets.
Found
an encampment.
