Thinning seedlings – 
How to choose the winners
and the compost?

The butterflies just kept coming

Their wings vivid orange

Looked like chips of sunshine

The sight marvelous, awe-inspiring

Such a small furious flutter

All that they have seen

Flicked off like secrets to the wind

I encountered the butterfly cloud

On a bright blue summer day

Knob shaped mountain butterflies

Every summer

Passionate

Enveloped in an orange haze

Suffering seems shocking to people, which I understand

The butterflies streaming it does seem weird

Keloid on my mind,
remembering Helen’s scars
shoulder bandage removed today
after infernally itching for 2 weeks
scar is a little lumpy, no keloid
Xray confirmedall bionic parts
are secured, in line

Anticipating yoga 
without
noisy joint grinding
blocking out all other sound
(and why didn’t others hear that?-
It’s deafening)

But first, PT.

              to heal,                                                              
                                                                           looking       
      through
                                a         blue veil
                                                                                 of  

something                    to                        care for.

                              I     remember
       the plump                bulb
           of                                time                   as                                                                                                                               
                                                a  distance,                  like
                                      wonder.                              

~ An erasure of page 12 in Margaret Atwood’s novel The Handmaid’s Tale

An angel comes at night

I think I am dreaming when

I realize it is an angel behind

that bear mask with a growl

sounding like a screech owl.

Are you trying to scare me, I ask?

Of course not, the angel says.

Only to take me seriously. I’m not

just some frivolous guy with wings.

Then he says: The forest is dying.

We are in danger, every life, even yours.

Why do you say that, I want to know.

People have caused the air to change,

polluted the earth and seas and rain,

even the wind. We cannot survive with all

that is being harmed and taken away.

He removes his mask, worry on his face.

I ask, What can I do?

Reach out, sing and dance, speak to

the trees. Write a poem. Tell everyone

and everything that you love them.

Like Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, I think.

I had Eros and Psyche in mind, he says.

But is it enough to love I wonder?

Care for everyone, for all things,

tend to their needs as your own.

Then we will become a part of each

other, depending on one another.

I add, We will know we are all one?

He smiles, Yes, yes you are getting it.

Then let me start with you angel,

I say as I look into his eyes and touch

his face. I love you, you silly guy

with wings and a big heart. I share

your pain. Let’s face this troubled

world together, whatever comes.

Burrs don’t hurt if you launder them

I just took the murkyturquoisecolores towel off a screen I like to make sure doesn’t wake me up with its blue light overnight, and

putting on my properlyturquoise glasses

to see

the brown spot

clearly

I see it used to be a burr

or it still is

really

just, now it doesn’t

sneak attack

like I was taught everything natural in Texas does

bite

sting

prick

the dose is twentyfivemcg for the

third

    day

        inna

            row

now

Tomorrow we

gotooo

nineteenpointfive or somethinglikethat

jagged edges of me appear the lower we go

we have to reduce slowly

train the body to

kick

in
with its own
                                                                                                                                    power

I have towels all over the place

how did I survve before so many towels and when did I become a person who uses towels for everything

is my towel utilization normal does it make sense

is it a rural skill or a disabled household one or just the only thing that blocks bluelight and mud with equal skill

The little ball is not still prickly, its tines are bent now and soft

the terryloopsofthetowel are safe from its snag

I cant see my way to thoughts

thoughts are twelve micrograms away

beauty is twelve more

essays are one chocolate truffle every ninetyminutes away

but that one brand, not the others

I don’t know the dose for novellas yet

my brain couldn’t keep track of a storyline before the accident past twentypages
    ten after the wreck
        three to five on a great day on covd brain

upping doses gives the body fuel to start healing.

the burrs in my body smooth out

in my mind, softness comes

im unbothered, at peace

dreams are still bad

but my glymph gets scrubbed anyway overnight so the hangover of bad drems

subsides

the dose reduces

shakes come

I fear people who are kind

my POTS returns

the dense quiet of my sweet house tries

                                                                                                    to hug me

I concentrate hard through the brain fog to

                reach
                                                            its                                                                                              arms

reducing the dose signals gland to start making its own hormone with the fuel it now has.

We seesaw

back and forth

for a year im told

two weeks off

three weeks inching up and down the dose ladder

I thought id never find soft in Texas

but now with this burr maybe there is

perhaps the body can soften into strong                                

                                                                                                                                     launder jagged

check with me in a year

an ex coach and his old runner stand
on a corner in a neighborhood where
they live years since that last race
“i remember when you broke that kid
on turn three of the last lap, what
a beautiful race,” says the ex coach
“third in the state,” the runner says
tears well in their eyes and they both
look away to gain their composure
and deal with the knowledge that they
both did all they could but fell short

He’s probably leaning against the bar,
   elbow pressed into something sticky,
   letting the whisky rain past reason,
   glass half-full, or half-forgotten?

Maybe it’s the man in the mirror,
   choking on smoke that lingers truth,
   redemption, striking a match,
   watching the flame before it consumes.

It could be the woman dealing chips
   neat stacks, holding towers at the table,
   flushing more than it can fold,
   calling it chance, or calling it control?

Or the kid on the corner, whose hands are
   too quick, slinging dope from palm to palm,
   selling escape in borrowed time,
   riding dragons that never land.

Where’s the monster that’s killing me?
   Numbing the noise to forget the pain.
   I run towards the fire to feel the heat
   just to prove I can still feel anything at all—
                                        And we all fall down…

I collect stories

from whispered conversations,
comment sections,
and people brave enough
to tell the truth.

I borrow trauma
from words spoken in confidence,
from strangers
and friends.

I translate them
into poems of my own.

Different timelines.
Alternative names.
New beginnings.
Dramatic endings.

I write about things
that never happened
to me.

Still,

my readers search
for a reason
to throw me a lifeline,

as if every voice
on the page

must be my own.