Picture sky, its timeless entirety: north, south, east, west,
directions encompassing life beneath it, existence through it,
eternal bird species know best, returning flock after flock,
if not driven to extinction, the air, everywhere, ground of hunt.
This horizon, for now, does not seem to have that, bluing more pearlescent
with less coal smoke & oily carbon exhaust poking ozone holes
for blazing rays in separate glory, shaft by shaft.
Behind that the perfectly burning circular sun grants photosynthesis
or fires wild as if humanity has nothing to do with this present
as early on stoves were for wood & the heaping of peat,
the past air so pure lungs sung with oxygen glistening
from valleys and glades, deserts and alps.
Imagine this kitchen window here having such painterly sheen,
all interior surfaces dust-mote gleaming to the richness of shadows
while in close-up particular hands on a bread board pound & shape dough.…
...continue reading
My friend’s backyard is a refuge for gypsies
feathered birds and fireflies, migrating spirits
on this plane and the next.
A bullfrog found a way through a fence
into his new pond, buzzing life to the grass
and trees beyond.
He’s a man who carries his hometown
tattooed under his skin, the stories
of people he loved in their own voices,
those who made and rejected him
in a single breath; set him to wandering,
led him to marry the world instead.
– Joseph Hardy
Author’s Note: I am drawn to write about the meaningful confusions of life.…
...continue reading
We drove past abandoned homes and trailers that collectively
left the impression of a salvage yard
*
We stopped and parked in an empty lot near the house
with an old hearse (slowly dressing in a desert
patina) and a giant clam
*
At that point we followed the disjointed string
of “everyone else”
*
Over the dike and down to the beach
*
I took pics. I got the bones of a ship. I got a homeless mailbox.
I skipped the Lisa del Giocondo porch (face without a body,
face without a face) because my Mona Lisa refused to pose.
I zoomed in on the large swing in the water
and the misty mountains
*
When I got closer to the water I continued with my wading beauty:
swing & mountains, swing & shoreline, swing & black-necked
stilt, swing-seat & pendant fish
*
I took a break from the swing.…
...continue reading
Hot enough for even crows to go missing.
………..I’ve been digging in shadeless afternoons,
………..giving him odds and ends. The wasp in a fig.
Mollusks in shells. Lightbulb filament.
He gathers interiors and finds use but
………..does not sweat and say we can fix this.
………..The kiss at day’s end is a way
to place heirlooms on a high shelf while
ants trickle into midnight dens, envious parade
………..of scent and function and I believe
………..in them at least, electromagnetic love and order
running an empire beneath toes burnt by patio. Again
and again, open windows refuse to cool even in
………..dark hours. No one remembers where the moon
………..hides all day or for how many months
a half-eaten cake in the freezer keeps. …
...continue reading
I hold my hands up to the sky & wait for lightning to strike me, after all I have been lying
awake at night, stitched into the side of your name like another bruise left on this body that cannot hold itself up any longer
than the night’s coldness in summer which is when I’m writing this as a way to escape the nightmares of you marrying him
in sacrilegious revenge to God’s humor which is to say my arrogance has left me faithless
in the process of healing
//
I looked to the world running wherever the wind would blow me, crashing down in a thunderclap leaving hollowed memories, ghosts I gave names to, associating them with scars I connect together like a map detailing where I’ve been — constellations to guide me towards the shore & out of the sea’s vast loneliness.…
...continue reading
During the rains, the darkening rains,
I am floating above the flood,
waters beneath me, splashing my back.
The fish see my shoulder blades,
mistake them for wings
because I float in air. But I do not
fly. I travel on the water’s aura,
its color changing with my mood,
while the fish in crowded schools
complain about limited knowledge.
Oval clams stay tight, closed to my shape,
a silhouette against the darkening sky.
They speak in a fishy chorus, rub
scales against each other like blades.
Dark rain pelts my face, cold, stinging.
Black water at my back splashes warm,
inviting me in. But I hover above,
still without wings, stay in-between.
I do not swim or dive or fly.
I float. The only way I know to get by.…
...continue reading
The third jump wakes the turtle, expatriate of the brackish backwater.
And when no one is watching, the tides – inch by inch,
neither salt nor fresh – erode my half acre. My half-life
spent sideswiping mile markers of gravel and tar
and spinning
spinning elliptically with inflated verve. Summoned
back not just to indentured space, but
slingshot to lace and latticework,
the familiar linens and pillows still holding
our heads’ heat and indented shapes.
All trace evidence,
all reluctant keepsakes.
I am a planet again.
I remember closing time when the cabana boys appeared.
They would gather the sodden towels arch with sifted sand
and roll their rickshaws along the boardwalk. The day ceiling…
...continue reading