from a letter found in a flea market bin

“Washington” wired Mr. Vance Sailor,
“instructed” him to tell her
that her last day would be Dec. 20, 1934,
but she would get “a leave of absence with full pay.”

Or so the cleanly typed paragraphs on FDIC stationary say.

The margins on the pages are straight, no errant ink stains,
and the “V” in Mr. Sailor’s signature climbs the page like a
vine, looping over the “very” in “very truly yours.”

Mr. Sailor wrote his “regret.” Lauding
her “loyal and conscientious” service, he “hoped”
to have the “opportunity” of “expressing”
his “appreciation” before she left,
which is the problem with letters typed so cleanly
so many decades ago: If he did, we will never know.

I search for you
In waters I know
I won’t find you,
But it never stops me.

Your lips
sing silent
cantatas
in profile

in the dark–
as I drive–

the sheen
of my sweat
glistening
there?  my best 

attempt
at harmony.

The storm stomped warning, shaped like a kicked in door, folks in the dark differ.

Okay, this hill, hollowed out I’m sure, held,
till it swept out its mouth, insignificant, slight,
synchronized little gentleman, antler-
felted, long moss lifting borders right
from between next Summer’s hit top 40
& 3 bits repeating imagery:
The tortoise
The hornet
The acrobat
The mime
It almost all adds up.
Don’t try to fix the count.
Road work lasts just long enough to figure
out, or get ahead of the word you held,
knew, refused, met overhead, river-swept,
refused, met under canopies, stars, hex-
agonal enclosures of all kinds till next
time trapeze-clung aloft, grudge-held cleaved we
can figure out a way around the windshield,
into our selfsame breath-whittled canyons

           eyes wide
    notice skies, clouds
green shoots rising, leaves unfurling
colorful cardinals, jays, finches
        spring’s here.

If I can accomplish anything with this life,
my wish would be to move and grow. 
I do not want to look back and see
myself in the same space that I was.
Others tread water as they slowly crystallize,
failing to move from pausing to paralysis
in the slow decline of importance and permanence.
Why did the ancients spend so much time
chiseling statues from memory?
Because memory is organic
and can only be spread through organic means;
the arts are both the vector and virus of our heritage, 
and people like us continue to spread it, 
from year to year
and from place to place,
our world has never needed this infection
more than it needs it now.
Release those statues and stories before the world heals them.

My brother feared the Wicked Witch,
hid behind a brown naugahyde chair
in the living toom of the single-wide
trailer we called home

Covered his eyes when she appeared
in a flash of flame, and cackling smoke.
Breathed a great sigh when she melted
and was gone with a splash of water
and a song

My sister feared birds for thirty years 
after watching Hitchcock’s little flick.
Until one day, she started feeding them
in her backyard, and choked back her
fright of wings and beaks one
bag of seed at a time

My mother told me I once feared bridges
That crossing large bodies of water made
me duck in the Chrysler’s floorboard until
we had reached the other side

Somewhere, the memory of swaying
and drowning disappeared with
every bridge I burned amidst
cackling smoke and  flapping of wings

prolific precious precocious pregnant pink flamingoes
are graciously procreating profoundly on the bay’s water edge
amazing shrimp eaters
escapees from a TRUMP tropical garden in Florida
flew cross-country straight to the mineral springs of Calistoga
and were adopted by a gentle spirited Libran
as he innocently sauntered down Main Street with his bro
these hot pink-feathered friends knew a kind heart when they saw one

once adopted and thriving in this northern California mineral town
they were gifted to grow in a highbrow town of Boring Gamers
every once in a while a high-brower will give a casual side glance
usually when FiFi is peeing on a patch or the WI-FI has taken a hike for a split second
but little do these high-browers know what’s coming . . .
this flock of pink princesses are bringing more than babies to this stuck-up town
for on each one of their ankles an anklet reads:

DON’T SINK INTO THE STINK OF PUTRID
(T)ranced (R)igid (U)niformed (M)ad) (P)olitics!!! 

In the miles from the shore
to my old Kentucky home
I have it in my head
that you hate my guts
and that our friendship will never be the same.

My secret spilled over the perfect grilled cheese pull
and I’ve had it in my head ever since
that you would read between my lines
until you saw things that weren’t there.

All this over two weeks apart.
Something awkward but sincere,
something dead gone and buried.
Something pressed between pages
yet something filled with guilt and shame.