I feel bad for my mother
(she didn’t have good parents)
, but I didn’t either
, and I’m still working on myself.
what’s her excuse?

The service was at the veteran’s cemetery in Poplar Bluff. His 
brothers were, as ever, theatrical in their mourning. Tony sobbing 
noticeably. Verbally. Cinematically. His children at arms-length 
uncomfortably morose and bored. Tyke hugging Tim 

tighter than I have seen humans hug anything but life
preservers. Tyler weeping onto the shoulder of a woman 
he did not know. Her blouse fading uncomfortably to a darker black. 
The artillery of thunder, rain making shrapnel 

on the concrete drive and the roof. Rain pattering handgun fire 
on umbrellas held by those who did not fit in the small chapel.    
Our house was 6 hours away and you were racing, but the dead,
despite all evidence to the contrary, don’t like to wait. And so it started 

without you. Veterans lined the room and stood around in the rain 
outside, waiting on something personal that had already arrived. 
The seated crowd, mostly civilians who had never been to war, 
listened to short, too kind speeches, 

whispered almost inaudibly by men gone sensitive for once 
in their cold lives. Many men I knew who sometimes said things so vile 
that were it not for the dead man at the front of the room, and my mother
sitting next to me, would have caused me to stand in the rain 

waiting on you, who had not yet arrived.   

The first notes of Taps startled most of us. The plaintive bugle 
softened by the weather. Tony moaned the first fermata. 
I turned and saw the uniformed old bugler draped in black neoprene.
Backdrop of clouds over a cemetery as if they belonged together.      

The guns startled all of us.

I love you

You love the river

Turn into me

Never bitter

Now I’m a halfway decent swimmer

I want to get caught in the riptide of your eyes

Exhaust myself against the current of my favorite ride

Lover

Touch me

I’ll shimmer

You can glitter

I want this poem
to make love
to you 

to un-
tether
you 

welcome
you
in 

I want it to  
tickle &
tease
tingle

inside
your
ear

tantalize

I want this
poem to wax
& wane 

go
whimsy &
wild

words
falling
line 
after
line
your
limbs
lengthen 

your
breath 
quickened

This poem wants
to call
you

by your
true
name

Tomorrow is Juneteenth
And this is a reminder of
How many days have passed
Since you’ve asked yourself,

How can I make you any prouder
Of me
Than you were the last time I checked in

There’s only one way 
To find out

Amherst, Massachusetts

Between this ship’s soft, swayed sides, I’m born again  

to dance.           The body—already a form—
gives way, repeats the phrase.
The movements keel,                         
                                       doubled in time, space:  

first, right       then, left       & then,     again.

The light outside of my apartment
casts everything orange–shadows fall,
paint ascetic stripes along lone wall.

I wonder, can we fully ever know another
person’s heart
or is it all imago–

I feel like I call out
all the time, unheard
a little, my big body
all want and swell,
my voice somehow both
loud and unseen
like the echo of a child
yelling into a river gorge
or the buzz of a dryer
in a dying laundromat–

the gleaming
halogen outside my window
gives me these lonely thoughts. 

Oh
what I’m saying is
if I could melt into the shade sometimes
and be on the other side
of everywhere, I would
be such a fan of the entire world, it’s many
corners: enhabit every pocket
of the place:
the dots on i-s, the narrow
under each Venetian blind. 

there’s a litany of disappointments
that plague me, budded with
hope
born in naivety & now
have withered & blackened,
burnt, dead, & unable to be
revitalized

tomorrow, my love, don’t worry,
the shepard’s coming to prune you,
your dreams will flourish again,
& we’re not creatures destined to an eternity of death

Rainbow ring
Around the moon last night
Tonight, perfectly reflecting
Off a metal rooftop
Through the tree, it looks like the glow from it’s rising

Petite Fleur
By Henri Salvador

Un homme et une femme Francis Lai
intstrumental version

Kabocha, sweet potato, asparagus, green bean
Tempura
With hot mustard, raspberry sesame, the white or pink rabbit which reminded me of thousand island but was actually a concoction of parsnip and white carrots, ginger…

Kale salad, with white rabbit and cilantro
And the spicy mayo on the avocado mango salad drizzled with blackberry ginger vinegar and lemon

Malade D’amour by Salvador again makes me feel like my heart has roosted in it’s place
Solstice season is the most beautiful time

Je ne suis la Pour Personne
Again
A Person is a Sometime Thing– Masekela

“Memorize a poem you love; both poem and poet will be alive in you.”
~Greg Pape

Memorize a poem
you love;
both poem and poet
will stay alive
in you.