Papercut in the finger joint,

as the word, empathy, is introduced
all that stale breath leaves lungs
it flows through the back of the fan
that has just been cleared of dust

as the word, empathy, is introduced
we see one another as seawater,
pushed substance; iodized rock salt
begone through our backs into air

as the word, empathy, is introduced
a violet vapor takes his thumbs
from my ears, and your mouth!
so less full of black crystals

nature and androids
wage potent warfare
erase human relevance

I lived that summer on my Chris Craft, The Ingratitude; at the Covington waterfront
Yolanda ran our law practice from a bar stool on the Mike Fink
A bright shaft of sunlight would melt into the polished mahogany, slip its way along the bulkhead and pour out onto the deck all in time to the gentle rocking of the Ohio
I didn’t care much for the headlong pursuit of career or success. I wanted a twisted reality
On the gally table I would spread a lunch; olives cold cuts and salt rye
A glass of wine and four lines on the mirror.
Looking like it might wind up another afternoon stoned in the office
I was content in the knowledge I’d banked ten Gees
I’d squeeze the Raven 22 with my arm pit for the security it gave
I’d lock the cabin and sally down the dock to the Mike Fink
There they’d be, the same cronies on the same bar stools, lawyers and lap sitters 
All but Yolanda, my partner in crime but sitting on no one’s lap
She’d have the little crowd around her yucking it up no better than the whittlers and spitters I knew back in Knott County
The public defender guy was saying to her: “I see you came with your pants off again Yolanda.” Yuk, yuk all around
“It’s: ‘without my pants’ Pinkas, did you even go to school? Sure I wore blue jeans yesterday but today it’s sunny out and I’m back in harness; skirt suit and heels.”
She saw me come aboard. “My man!”
She spoke to me that way. We were the only women in a man’s world and in public she tried to speak like a man.
I climbed up and ordered us a round; a shot of Beam with a Common Cream back.
She raised her shot glass to mine and said: “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta brew so let’s have two.” Clink
I told her: “I’ve come to uderstand, Yo, that human beings are a world unto themselves.”
“You’ve got that right.” She chimed: “All the laws and secrets of the world are found in each one of them.”
“No need to study the world, Yo, just take one human being – – –
She interupted: “and a good hard look will show you all the good and evil; the mundane – – 
” and the sublime. Just take Pinkas here.” I turned and Pinkas had gone over to the pool table to slap the prosecuter on the back
“Well,” I said, “we’ll have to take a hard look at you instead. Come on down to 
The Insolipsism, we’ll sit out on the deck in the sun.”
We sat back of the wheel house and she asked me for a Schweppes. “Boy this Schweppes is schweppers.”
We fired up The Ineptitude and cruised down stream aways
The Markland Dam was coming up and I throttled down the twin Chevy 283s
I flicked un the running lights, dark was coming on
Wasn’t going to run the locks so we loafed in the pool awhile
Yo entuned: “Oh how I’d like to be the kind of gal I used to be. Wait, no I wouldn’t. That’s just a fascinating rhythm.”
“Gershwin, yea.” I pointed the Insipid back up.
The crows cawed even in the  night
Out there on the water
We came up river
Past the Cave In the Wall
The Indispicable glided to her berth
And held there
Shut down the twin beasts
And we all had to breathe the fumes

What happens when you omit half
the emotions from your repertoire
Deny anger, jealousy, sorrow, grief
Focus only on joy, happiness, ease, peace

It’s like trying to speak using only half
the letters in the alphabet  

Try it

Try speaking today using only words
that begin with A through L  

Banish

words that start with M through Z

Don’t focus on them

Don’t focus

Deny their existence  

Keep them from your thoughts  
Be half the person you could be

If only you used all the letters

Robins singing in the Rose of Sharon,
its leaves and branches thick
enough to keep them out of sight
until you get close and silence them,
like the bones of an abandoned life
towering over thickets of thistle
and tall, tightly crowded trees,
not there until you almost walk in,
the front door open just a bit
to let the ghostly voices welcome you.

 “It’s not my stripper name,” he says.
“It’s my nom de plume.”  

She sips her wine and smiles.
Tell me again the difference?    

At Al’s where poets play,  

I smoke resinous weed
on porch, its scent swirls
around silk skirts I don,
learning to refuse
bourbon, wildfire
in my blood, too late
before challenging
a poet a playful
game of patty cake, yet
the picture reveals fierce
eyes locked erupting
in laughter until under
spotlight on stage,
behind mic, passions
turn serious, souls offering
painful laments, sobs, howls,
more laughter, shouts, murmurs
about mountaintop mastectomies,
women surviving trauma,
a Vietnam vet recalls lost soldiers,
someone recites a Civil War rhyme 
we excuse ourselves back to patio,
lighting cigarettes, waiting our turn,
assuring each other talent on tap
more meaningful than the pitchers
we empty in rounds, laughing
about liquid courage, feeling
like this is important. This
monthly gathering of souls
profound, those little stapled
pages of verse as significant
as any heavy anthology I once
studied, then taught, now write
poems we dare to speak.

Strong coffee & it is not dawn not yet day

sometimes, i move things around
in my brain, adding the context
i create to justify, to myself,
why i’m sticking the things where
i’m sticking them

but there is always a note
attached, specifying where 
the thing actually belongs
and i’ve yet to find a way
to delete these notes

and my brain has an audit
feature that finds these
truths and insists they
be moved to the proper place
and i cannot rest
until i’ve have done so

i have a friend who does not
have this audit feature and
seems at total peace
with the quality of her mind,
with no conscience pestering
her thoughts 

and i wonder if my friend
can every feel love or joy
or the pleasure of giving 
to others, but i don’t doubt
she can feel hate, because
i’ve seen it often enough

and so i think there is 
something key in having
a mind that does not rest, 
rather, that questions
and tests and considers
possibilities, that can
both stand and yield,
that can connect
in an honest way
with other minds

i shared this thought
with my friend, who
shared her vacant smile
in return and said
nothing