The first pass to outline the property,
then the long rows, down and back,
down and back, covering the same ground
two steps over, slicing through whatever
stands in the way — grass leaf,
oak leaf, cigarette butt.

I know this patch of earth
better than anyone, having
followed the mower across
its every inch so many times:

the gentle hump
the blades will scalp,
how the dogwood’s soft bark
will yield to the edge
of the mower deck,

how furred magnolia pods disintegrate
with a satisfying chunk,
and that the purr of the engine
draws sharp-eyed finches to hunt
desperate moths
as they make a break
for the diminishing forest
of uncut grass.

I’m unsure of how we’re nearing the end of June

The year has sprinted past us in a dizzying chronicle of dates, quick kisses and to-dos

I don’t know what day it is in the heat of the nearing solstice sun

Each passing birthday my earthly revolutions seem a little faster spun

Unsure of what I’m doing, waffling back and forth between the need to sit down and to run

The increasing speed in which my life’s interludes conclude quickens the urgency to find the certain

Be it a proclamation as a deacon, henchman, vixen, or nun

I think I’ll just keep guard of the coven door

For there are no answers

And I’m assuredly having fun

i want to be with quiet 
despite the clock ticking its decision for otherwise   
i can try  lean into its cupped chest upon waking
offer tea and scones in hopes of its linger

where do we pay for our attention

i rather like what may come from a space with nothing but air  or light  or heartbeat
or not from but of

i manage to sink into its silted surface   this shift and swim of earth beneath soles 

i pay it my two cents

i can afford its fee for a day

of this ancient library,
closeted in incunabula:
the Doctors of Theology—
handy guys to have around.  

Some are Notabilis, like Pierre de l’Ile (heard of him?),
or Memoriosissimus;
some are just Famosus, like Bertrand de la Tour,
just a friar unlike the Famosissimus Benedictine, Petrus Alberti.
Some you’ll find in Abstractionum,
others are Clarus or even Clarus ac subtilis.
Ours was simply Doctor Subtilis— 
as anyone who’s studied Friar John Duns Scotus will attest.  

Once you get to know them you’ll discover they’re
Dulcifluus, Ecstaticus, Excellentissimus,
Acutissimus, Mellifluus and Mirabilis,
Ingeniosissimus and Authenticus
and occasionally Fertilis.  

Avoid being in Contradictionum
but more than Ordinatissimus stay Fundamentalis—
you find it’s Ornatissimus et sufficiens,  

But stick with Invincibilis, Irrefragibilis, and
Angelicus like Thomas Aquinas
and you can’t go wrong.  

If you can, be Profundissimus
but always Resolutus and Succinctus.
And when you need a close shave,
come back to William of Ockham,
Singularis et invincibilis!

Birds watch skyfall slowly.
You are around wrapper on caramel,
and shapes dip, pitch, and reverse.
Wrapped on we flow rounds until
sleep and clouds shower their meteors
into greeting rays of sun when alarm goes off, 
but I say no to the headboard in three successive
pops! and you laugh, happy to oblige—
the price of exhaustion approaches drowning
in chocolate, salt, and cherries.
I see smoke rising from the oaks, 
the rise of heat has not fired us
from the night’s spent shards into new pots
which I fill with grain for the bird between us.
She sings madly. Truly, her deep train whistle
signals derailment, eyes rolling in her head,
hands clutching the ground to stop her plummeting.

Twilight teases passengers sleepy, serving their tomorrows today.

The sun beat the shit out of me.
I can still taste the salt on my tongue
mixed with dirt and licked
carelessly from the upper lip.
I can taste grit and hand me down paint
and the sticky pollen of black pine.
I can taste the sun.
Hot and hostile and dry even though
I’m dripping wet.
The sunshine slapping my face from space,
reaching way down to remind me

of how it feels to burn red and deep
till you’re begging for a vinegar soaked
brown paper bag
plastered across your back
as tight as kitschy wallpaper
in a single wide kitchen.
Mamaw used to remind me
to slather on the sunscreen.
Great Papaw used to go down to the garden

hoe in hand in the night.
And here I am, no time for common sense,
sweating and sweating and sweating
myself silly, tack hammer in hand. 

Eyes clamped shut
at 47 minutes,
the metallic taste of
anticoagulants
Behind closed eyes, I visualize
Great nephew Mikah (6),fighting leukemia,
Friend Pat (70),fighting West Nile virus,
And Mom,who donated blood her whole life,
In honor of and hope for them
I set aside my needle phobia
And donate platelets.

He let his head
Day dream too long.
Sun baked.
Drank what he lost,
lost what he dranK.
Wore jeans.
(Dumb ass)
Nothing not to smile about.
Toured the city.
Errands ran him.
He: leisurely observer of growth.

Trying
Just trying.

A shift in the wind
For the sails of my mind.
I smiled more.

-PRESENT-
*

Darkness covers
No inference.
To lie down
Smiling
In the face of opposition,
Spin by spin,
Dark to light…

-PRESENT-
*

I will free myself,
Time and time again,
To pluck the notes of my life.
Living: the harmony of the mind and soul.

-Present-
*

Maybe it was a good day
For day dreams
After all.