I wonder what my no’s are.
Adayre’s are so clear, though sometimes
the rhythm of his rejections gets ahead of him. Saying
no to strawberries, for example, when
strawberries are almost always a yes— yes to the
point of speckled cheeks if bigger no’s didn’t intervene.

I say those no’s at times—no to what I really
want, or need.  My grandpop was like that— left
presents unopened.
If he received, he’d have to give.
Those no’s shut off life.  
Dad would rip the package open
as he  handed the gift to his father.
Here, Pop, he’d say to the new pipe or the
tobacco pouch. And his dad would open
his eyes wide.

No escape from that affection.

Adayre’s no’s aren’t saying no to the world— just
exploring the part of his universe that he controls.  
Shoes on or off? Nap time or not? Who  gets to
carry him downstairs? Pop or Daddy? (Pop’s a bit needy.
Best not to encourage him too much.)

My no’s are more like Adayre’s than my
Grandpop’s—though saying no to the world
is more and more an option and,
these days, necessary, saving me
from rashes much worse than the ones
strawberries engender.  

Saying yes is sometimes hard but Adayre
does it well. His yeses are easy, softly sweet,
not fist-bumps like his no’s.

Yes, he says  lifting his arms,
carry me.  

Open the present.

A multitude of threads weave race day into the iconic fabric of the bluegrass.

The sloshing of mint juleps in pristine cups,

the whirl of beautiful dresses around every corner,

the sunshine ricocheting off the paddock to envelop each patron in a warm welcome,

and the cacophony in the stands when the horses leave the starting gate,

only preceded by absolute quiet

moments before.

This whimsy exists in a world between tradition and history,

where the race itself remains the same,

yet the result never is.

And isn’t that the magic of it all?

A horseshoe-shaped signature on the track honors all those who came before

and all those who have yet to experience it.  

The thread was caught, the bag was near,
The lei a knot of plastic bloom.
The child’s eye glared with darkest gloom.
The thread was caught, the bag was near,
A sacred tangle, not too dear.
The lei a knot of plastic bloom.

The scissors came, I begged, I cried.
The iPad pinged with phantom me.
I muttered spells, no remedy.
The scissors came, I begged, I cried.
The ghost of calm, unsatisfied,
The iPad pinged with phantom me.

Into the reliquary deep,
The lei, half-broken, tied again—
A heavy sigh, but not of pain.
Into the reliquary deep,
The closet where all lost things sleep,
The lei, half-broken, tied again.

how astonishing

the assault

                        of fever

rooted

in the bowels

                of the earth

On Being Ill, Virginia Woolf

Our foundation of nature-laid limestone shelves
and their pure, pure water bubbling up or
flowing downhill from springs
make our horses and our whiskey strong.  

Horses require spirit;
bourbon needs sinew.
From earliest settlement, corn flourished.
Farmers preserved excess in barrels.  

Commercial ventures emerged,
and by 1918 — 210 distilleries graced the Bluegrass.
Thousands worked in distilleries,
cooperages, glassworks, and saloons.  

The third state to ratify the 18th Amendment,
Kentucky turned her back on economics and heritage.

6625 Poem

The face (features, focal point, and expression) occupying space in the adjacent space.

A drone (acoustic, electric, amplified) vibrates voicing pleasant meaning into the unknown.

Obstacles (compact space, a bookshelf, itemized materiality) obstructs movement.

Restricted but never limited
Minimal but never obsolete
Occupied but never overburdened
Vacancy but never suffering

Words (spoken, written, internalized) wobblingly in weary competition to be released.  

In my heart I know that it is a blight,
a poison to the young oaks
and rose bushes and grasses
and cliffsides along the highways,
a sweet-voiced crooner
with its hand on their throat,
but I am merely an elephant hawk moth,
selfish in where I feast, brown-pink swirls
of wings fluttering to the melody,
eyes for sugar and sugar alone,
whatever else passes for life
be absolutely goddamned.

The funeral director—a friend—offers clients’ regrets
as anecdotes to support his opinion your stubbornness
isn’t serving you. You don’t hear it, won’t; instead, turn
to other folks and sing, playfully, partially, “Thank you
for being my friend,” even though they may not all be.
Later, your wet face won’t dry. You think of the hike
earlier described to you, a waterfall in unrelenting rain.
Still, a place worth getting to. Despite red clay ruining
four sets of shoes, creating new costs. That was the part
that had bummed them out, not love for the old ones.

There’s a subtle wave
between two motorcyclists:
a shared risk and joy. 

Wildfire smoke from up north
wraps around the rising sun,
hugs the air with threats,

this stagnant atmosphere smothering.
Echoes of angsty arguments fill my feeds,
it’s too much to scroll to the bottom.

I stand on the porch with my coffee
looking to the sky for answers as the sun
tries to peak from beneath
those wispy layers.

It looks so much like how
I feel inside my head,
smoggy brain attempting to work
through the chaos on the news

engulfing me, engulfing us all, and
each time there’s progress, it shifts,
haze covering every crack,

maybe confusion is the goal,
the world mirroring our
decisions with fires and floods.

I sit down on the step, contemplating,
trying to figure out what may come next.