is how I navigate the table talk in this Italian convento—
I scoop up all the words I know
and try to assemble them
into the subject of the conversation:
the weather?
last night’s football match?
what the pope said about Ukraine?
the roman traffic?
This jigsaw-puzzle exchange
gives me all the pieces
but not the picture
on the lid of the box.
How is it hateful people live forever?
The years are too kind to the greedy.
The upper crust without a crust
of stale ass white bread to spare
for all those folks on the draw.
For all those food stamp recipients
trying to get their bellies full
on cold condemnation and contempt
and hot dogs.
How come hateful people
get to eat their fruits and vegetables?
And toss away leftovers
like somebody wouldn’t eat them?
I imagine they’re gorged by now,
on sparkling clean water and caviar
or whatever those kinds of people
stuff their faces with these days.
I heard plain old fish eggs
ain’t fancy enough anymore.
Too common. The rarity has worn off,
taste buds have changed.
Wonder how caviar would do dropped out
into patties to go along with gravy and biscuits?
Stiffened up with Hudson Cream flour
and deep fried in lard till the edges
get just crispy enough.
On an unnamed afternoon
after William Kitterman
imagine if this went on
much longer
if it happened again
and again
an old friend speaks:
you are a scared little man
my sweet friend
my sweet from end to end
bring a cup of joe
sit here on the stoop
slurping pain
let it happen once again
after the morning noise
where I thought much,
felt little—evening came—
and my heart was breaking,
no one was there to notice,
because I hadn’t noticed them.
Never touched one
No desire to wield
a tool to kill.
Pleading to
BAN
assault weapons.
Caregiving is a dance in light
dangling fingers and toes in spaces and places filled with indiscernible chi
ultimately leading to a place we all go . . .
the Light, the Shadow, the Dark, we know not
the caregiver grows in depths of silently knowing . . .
Listening to nature’s way of driving the transition from here to there . . .
gently shown when drugs need to be held at bay ~ and natural herbs invited instead
And as the usher, dim torch in hand, reads the ticket in the dark,
intuition leads on a lightened path,
ascending and descending in small steps
right to the velvet lodge seat
as the Light grows brighter inside . . .
Grandparents already
I think I was made to exist within a tornado
As a girl I loved storms much more than Play-Doh
I’m more beguiled on back roads than the dark of a bar
Long hair flows wild when there’s no top on your car
They cautioned against sticking my neck out bare
I wonder if the movie proposed the dare
My dad took me to see Twister
at the theater when I was ten
I never wanted
to touch the
tunnel but
Simply
Feel
The
Wind
At 16 I saw the pinky finger of God touch Masterson Station
to leave a message in the remains of man’s creation
They asked for my dad’s license because hey no through traffic
but no one sight sees with kids at a
view so tragic
other than those who take city planning games
And destroy them to see what the public blames
And isn’t that
POWER
why we are
fascinated so?
How everything
glides
amongst
Lightening
glow
My husband watches YouTube for storm chasers
Who study the currents with meteorological lasers
They answer the question of why does it rain
What qualifies precipitation to be hurricane
We expect expert answers be exact
and wonder why
no one agrees which fact will
fall from the sky
For whatever storm
percentage is listed today
Humanity will rebuild
what
nature
leads
a
s
t
r
a
y
**Please forgive potential formatting errors**
