We had been warned about the Monet

by the sandy, yet soft, voice in the foyer

who warned us that we did not have enough

time to appreciate any one of the works

these masters had swallowed years with,

with the lingering hour before 

the halls darkened for another storm-kissed night.

Maybe I uncovered my own oversight

at not thinking that I could find

a Monet, a Manet, a Seurat, or a Pissaro

within the bounds of the city

where boundaries and states lose distinction

somewhere between flatness and grass.

Seeing a Van Gogh mixed in with the rest

convinced me even more 

that some unexpected places and some expected times

align enough to accentuate in relief

what hangs in front of me for days and days,

even if only for two weeks a year.

We may not ask to find 

the works of art 

museums allow us to see on display;

the same could be said 

for the people we find ourselves with,

beautiful Americans from everywhere and nowhere

creating a life more color than water,

yet I enjoy their stories far more

than my own landscape lost

among dozens of the same sort of satisfying strife. 

Words are cannon.
Light the fuse.

Manifestation of spring
comes through snow and storm,
through trials and tribulations
it arrives resilient and strong
being and feeling,
with memory and purpose

It appears unwithered and determined
everything from the beginning
crocus, cherry blossoms, and daisies
calls to its late blooming brothers
goldenrods, hydrangeas, & marigolds,

to push into summer with armor
not dying or falling short into
autumn’s vengeance on green,
and even then only lay sentry
to the lull of hibernation and
winter’s snow-covered fortress

Intentional and patient
under a silver moon
for its turn to bloom

Bright and vibrant
petal and stalk,
grass and trees,
sure and kind,
in praise and glory

Awe-inspiring, yet humble
to creator and creation
through endurance and season

Bigfoot is a feminist at heart.

I mean his mama?

You should’ve seen her.

Tough as nails

with a spirit somehow still so gentle.
She taught Bigfoot how to read a room, how to never linger where you don’t feel welcome

because after all, friendly fire 
still burns. 

All those years that went by, when  nobody was looking for her?

She’d whisper a silent prayer.

Because man

all she wanted to do is be seen clearly

but how nice was the peace of not being found ?

Once, she dreamed she had a name 
that echoed through the forest 
and maybe she used to, 
years before her silence felt like home. 

But  now? Now she is Bigfoot’s mama. 
The legend that birthed a legend. 

Hello

Hello

Hello yes
Yes I am ready to order

I would like

I would like a um

Umm

Do you all still have the one with bacon
Oh ok, but you had it yesterday
That don’t make no sense

That’s Fine, um

Um, sorry, just um

Um

Ok, I’ll take the the
#5 please
With no pickles or onions
Ketchup and cheese only please
Oh and can you add bacon on the side

Oh yeah, your right, my bad
I’m sorry

And can I get a large coke 

Coke

A Coke

Coca Cola

And a large fry
Yes, yes that’s correct
Thank you

Every winter I wake and wait. 

Maybe this year no frost,

Holding my flowers for the right moment.

That they’ll flourish and grow, being courted and caressed by fluttered wings: wasps, beetles, birds, and bees.

To grow into that plump ripe fruit that falls

And feasted upon by my adopted children

letting them carrying motes of my soul

So that my progeny may grown on across our home

Just dreaming that I may be more,

More than just shade in the summer heat.

More than and highway for the

crawling insects whose lifespan are but a blink to me.

More than a pretty shelter in a storm

Fretting that I may be struck by the sky and this Shelter fall.

Not becoming an axe striking down those that trusted my canopy.

More than a pretty carpet of wrinkled gold, crackled brown, and sunset reds falling to be a discarded garment by my roots as I meet the northern winds naked and asleep.

Please let me time it right this year

Summer wheeled in
all red white and blue handlebar streamers
and baseball cards clicking in her spokes
nickels and dimes jingling in her pocket
to spend on lunch counter cherry Cokes

Summer stretched days out longer than a Hotwheels racetrack set
melted rainbows onto t-shirts with popsicles
made dares to jump homemade ramps and eat sweet clover 
At dusk her presence was permission to dangle bath-damp legs
from the front porch swing for an extra half-hour

To drive a country road is new each time
The careless curves traveled
By careful drivers

That white sign reads “55”
Resident cars cross the yellow line

The yellow sign reads “35”
A fresh face heeds the warning

The beaten sedan would not traverse this street
If she had not been rerouted
By flashing lights and a helpful hand
On the steady path

They still don’t believe what they see,
wonder where the mirrors are set up
to cleave off half my frame, fraction figure,
my fractured image losing mass as the crowd
loses the ability to suspend disbelief. The magic
gets old faster than I ever will. The amusement 
fizzles to pity. Circling eyes see only a great
constellation of shame floating above my neck, 
peer down the well of my severed throat, xray
my soul, come to some conclusion. I am
spitting out raw oxygen, the words never catch
in the flow of it, my perspective lost in the plummet
beyond tightrope vocal chords, dancing miles up.
I’ll be a circus of dead flesh, tricks of the light,
and if you angle everything precisely as I stand
in the middle of this funhouse, caught between jaws
closing mirror hinges, the reflection will bounce images
of endlessness, and in the center of this downwards spiral
I’ll disappear entirely. 

Nothing like returning to the place where you lost a fight
Because life isn’t fair
And you’ve been playing by all the rules that don’t exist
They’re not there
And all this time you realized
It’s not real that’s rare
It’s that all of the hopes and dreams you had, for you
Disappeared into thin air
Don’t think that people didn’t notice
They do, but they don’t care
They will take more from you than they give
And leave your shelves and cabinets
Bare

So please take heed to this advice
Or, ignore this if you dare
At some point the giver runs out of love
And there’s only pain left to share