Evening heat glows–
     purple canterbury bells
          crumple, embers fade

It’s so fucking HOT.
I can’t think of a more clever
replacement for fucking.
Can’t even string together as many thoughts
as beads of sweat pelt the ground
falling from my forehead, elbows, and belly
onto the sidewalk where they barely
turn from a shadow to a spot
before boiling into nothingness.
I thought I might remove my shirt-
more surface area to evaporate
the sweat. My body’s feeble attempt at cooling
an umbrella in a nuclear firestorm.
The air is so thick and pregnant with water
it can scarcely accept any more.
It’s a hazy fog that obscures both
vision and breathing. Drenching all things
yet not at all hydrating.
May and early June
lulled us all into a false sense of safety. Zeus
taking a break from philandering
to orchestrate the rainiest May in memory
before some scantily clad sorority socialite
on her last summer before real life
drew him away from his duties,
back into a stupor.
Soon Hephaestus fired back up his forge
and sent his exhaust and offal
down towards us mere mortals.
Boiling us all alive, to keep the industry moving.
It’s so
            fucking
                          H
                              O
                                  T

I don’t even remember what I was doing.

metal scream
learn to sing
ease into
the shoulder brush
endorphin rush
the question
and its answering
the fear it brings
the opening

sleep the whole night
and wake with the light on
my body is not a treasure chest
anymore—it is a river

Amid isolated mountain cliffs
craggy and barren
sits a cubic throne 
bearing the horned heads of rams
And there presides 
the Emperor. 

Crowned in gold 
holding an ankh and sphere as
symbols of his dominion over the world
under his red robes he wears armor.

He is not a peaceful ruler.

The Emperor
imposes his structures 
enforces his rules
asserts his authority

But his wisdom is not drawn from a higher power
His control is over earthly realms alone.

With the arrival of the Emperor
it is already too late.

But he has no power 
without his executors–
look to those around him 
to see how the power
of the Emperor
is used.

Sow seeds every day
Flowers, grasses, trees, or weeds
And leave a green wake.

* 9 of 9 strategies for a creative life

First there was Bruno. A medium-size mutt who looked a bit like a miniature collie. He belonged to my grandmother, and when she died, Bruno became mine. I was ten.. The first funeral I attended was that of my Grandmother. I remember black patent leather shoes and a coffin. Bruno would climb over the chain-link fence in our backyard, run off to the woods, and return home smelling like skunk. Eventually he was struck by a vehicle, and when he died I was devastated. I was fourteen. My mother hugged me and said, “time heals all wounds,” that ridiculous cliché. That was so unlike her.

Then came Sniffles, whom I adopted while I was in my first year of graduate school, just before I slipped into the final stage of a major depression. My friend Mary had said, “Nettie. you need something to take care of.”  Shortly after Sniffles’ adoption from the Kentucky Humane Society, I withdrew from school, returned home to my mother, and slept 20 hours per day in her bed for a month. During the other four hours I sat at her kitchen table, silent. Sniffles was a beautiful white-haired medium-size mixed Terrier. He spent hours stalking squirrels among the giant Oaks along Eastern Parkway, moving one paw at a time. Most of his stalking consisted of stillness.  He was six when we began having children and mysteriously appears in every family photograph. All five of us were there when we put him down. I refer to him as Mythic Sniffles.

We adopted Blue from the Jefferson County Animal Shelter. Supposedly a corgi/border collie mix, and he was terrified of fireworks and storms. Every Sunday we’d hike within the Mount St. Francis Nature Sanctuary, and when I missed our turn he would stop, demanding I go the right direction. When he heard gun shots from surrounding properties, he would turn around, occasionally looking back over his left shoulder to confirm that I was following him home. At the age of seven he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. The seizures were horrific. All five of us were there when we put him down. Bubby Little Buddy Blue.

Half Pitbull, half Great Pyrenees, Lexi was adopted from the Woodstock Animal Foundation in Lexington, Kentucky. She is a big white dog with a big personality and is the most social member of our family. She has one solid black ear and the other ear is polka dotted. A large black heart appears on her right side. Sometimes she finds herself in trouble when she goes off trail at The Mount, but she is surprisingly adept at following directional gestures. She drools, snores, drips water on my hardwood floors, rolls in wild animal dung, and is more stubborn than I am. When she dies I will be devastated, and my mother will not be here to console me. 

I wait for her every day
My quiet, messy refuge
Is for her
The quiet place where
She takes a good deep breath
After tossing her bra
Standing next to
A pile of dirty laundry
Where her work clothes are thrown
After she’s patted herself down
And checked all the pockets twice
She steps under the steaming water
And fills me with decadent
Honey and pomegranate 
Much better than the jeans
That smell of hickory smoke 
Or the damp, sweaty socks
That leave grooves around her calves

I’ve been wrestling roots
and old-growth demons
   first-born
   peacemaker
   penitent
   phobophobic
   imposter  

What if
I dig my fingers
deep in my own soil
solely for the sensation
of turning handfuls of my humus self
back toward the sun  

What might it mean
to tell my story in this season
sub-lithospheric
cave-painting by torchlight
my own song echoing
mitochondrial magma  

What if mud in my hair and worn amber beads
are the loftiest adornments
neanderthal soul
meant to wander fault lines
unearthed
   free of any name
   that came before

firm as a fresh pack of cigarettes