Chasing Lee was fun.
That’s why they did it.
He had angry eyebrows
And threw bright Legos
At the chasers, landing upon
Grey, tar bubble, suburban
Streets…The Converse Kids
Smashed them to bits
With the intensity of their running
Until Lee’s red front door
Slammed into place, a plastic brick
Within his blue glowing home
They returned to the rules
of whiffle ball and hollow bat
Involving tops of trees, curbs
Telephone wires and mailboxes.
Rules… not involving Lee…
Who never, strangely, cried
Like I cried, ever, so strangely.
The pieces were picked up
By morning, by an invisible mom.
Occasionally a lone Lego would
Pop up during a rainstorm
Lodged against brown leaves
Neon yellow against a grate.
I cup my hands
Dipping them into
Cliff Creek…and am
Taken back… by
The clearness of the water
So, I peer into the forest, for
The creek’s source,
The Coast Range.
Realizing its spring is
So near the cliff, that
Plunges this newly born water
Into the Pacific.
In the form of
A small waterfall,
I hold handfuls of the stuff
That can’t stand still,
Dancing with the sun,
The driest forest canopy I have
Which will not make
It to the ocean
I’m greedy with my thirst
(It’s been dry for so long)
I’m here to quench the longing
Now, I must drink………..for
I stand between
Spring and falls, and as
I fill myself
A hiker passes me, noticing
My parched state
I say to him
“I’m sorry. I’ve been running.”
New city’s children
Too early for maturity
Play upon sheen, oily pavement
Dancing on calloused feet
Barely feeling the heated gravel
Until broken glass reminds them
They are to grow up
Before their time,
Before any time…and
Feed the gullet of infrastructure
Picked from the driest days
A brown spring plucked, to
Produce an eternally chilled
Perpetual youth food, and…
Management, world conditioning
That keeps all matter edible
From the Kuiper Belt to Atlantis
Where Metropole mouths eat
Whatever they want, how they want it
When they want it, even if it doesn’t
Want it…with a thousand
Colors of chalk and charcoal
Clutched in their chimney sweep hands
Drawing hopscotch rules
On top of parking lots
Spread out like barns on the plains, named…
Supermarkets of Lost Foods
Where tattooed hipsters smile
Calming the old children
With sugary whole grains
Warning them of impending
Plastic packaging, pointing to
Green spaces that divide
Handicapped parking from
Silent hybrid auto engines.
Still they shop, grey bearded,
For Whitman’s leaves
in the refrigerated section
People with eleven toes do not necessarily have a better grip on things.
The most livable cities in the US are located outside the country
Antarctica wants to be on top for a change to put some spice into the continents.
Some men are dicks, no surprise there.
9 out of 10 people believe television is evil. That’s why they watch it.
96 percent of the US swear that buffalos have wings, only if they have not been bred in captivity.
Kids who enter school at an early age learn to cheat better than their peers.
New age music did not start a new age. It ruined it.
3 out of 10 strippers think they look better with their clothes on. 9 out 10 of their customers agree.
The more climate change warms things up, the more people are willing to ride bikes.
1 out of 15 satellites are sick and tired of seeing the same scenery over and over again.
8 out of 10 women fake orgasms while masturbating.
85% of drunks remember everything even though they say they forget
Birds of feather do not necessarily flock together. As a matter of fact, 59 percent admit they hate each other.
60 percent of people surveyed said they would not have children. So, it’s the 40 percent who are fucking things up.
80 percent of people stranded on a desert island would commit suicide if they didn’t have their smart phone. The other 20 percent were willing to compromise with a flip phone. Thus, humanity could possibly be saved.
78% of people believe what surveys say.
82% of doctors recommend hollering at the moon. That same 82% recommend seeking medical attention if the moon hollers back.
The Tillamook Rescue
Combed the waves for him
Jet ski bucking the tide
With a rider attached to a trailer.
Back and forth they zigzagged
I watched their orange suits
Bobbing on the reflections of the sun
A constant twinkle of life—looking
Longer than all our breaths could hold, combined
Passed between the moments of
A broken crab shell and seagull feathers.
His bluish greyness, camouflaged
By our childhood splashing, swimming, loving
We were still searching
When the sun reached the sea
Your lucky numbers: Have all been used up
The flesh of my lover’s body
Still taut within memory’s touch
That distance shaped my femininity
Her sweet, sweet, large lips, appeared
As a succulent rooted plant
Which allowed me into her meadow
To traverse the yard, to stretch within the clover
Tasting her dandelion, a wine, sweet weed,
The fuzz of her stalk still stuck to my tongue
I was loved for gathering the morning dew
Loose in her garden, leaning with the spin of Earth
I couldn’t stop growing. This she knew.
but now, cut clean as a thistle, a ragwort
Decayed, clipped, mowed down to a level field—
Away from dirt, my girlhood crumbled into dirt clods.
The color of my blossom strained a shady purple
The spiny leaves of my effort condemned me
Now, In the compost bin, I spoke babble
To ivy, buttercups, and sore, sore sorrels
Who claimed they were willing to stay
Upon dirt, clay and crust, providing, promising
The creation of love, (This is not falling in love)
Planted, Watered, Groomed, Nameless.
Her name, unmentionable, our relationship, banished
As I dried to my death, breasts sagging, she pushed
Beyond my twine, into the moist regions, luring my bite
Until my teeth became mush, I managed a mangled smile
In between old lipstick, gloss, and caked on rouge
Settled within the ridges of my wrinkles
My seeds, vanished, blown away by present breaths
My memory is a vine, wrapping itself
Around thoughts, perspectives, emotions
How my tears are hotter than I remember
Her yellowed flower, a faint scent of sex
Stuck on the end of my eternal nose
Unfortunately applied to the middle of my face
The book of my fall, recited by my children
From their throats, drones like bees
Sing and dance, play above the grass
Where they fly directionless
This is of no surprise, for
I never taught them where to find the blooms
How one comes to a flower
How one talks to a flower
How one becomes a flower
Why someone would want to become a flower
When she sees me, she bends the branches backwards in anger
“I have heard this music before,
saith the body.” – Mary Oliver
This room—is alone—
By voices, seemingly ethereal
Bessie, Nina, and Billie
Who settle the walls, solid
into a comfort, darkened beauty
Yet, a saddened quietude, I share
This room—is alive—
Shaken awake into vibration
A stir within the voices
Suchitra, Asha, and Umm
Bring the room into fervor, spirited
Walls become heated from
An inner atmospheric desire, I share
This room—is flying—
Bow and stern, rug and sofa, with sound
Through firmament, I’m riding—
The entire room orbits the planet
Melody consumes this sphere of noise
For the inner ache of the songstress
Lands upon my ears, a nether song
Which I am tied and bound to, as you
Also, recognize the shape of what, We share
This room—catches shapes—
I cup my hands together
Wanting to hold voices like water
Shirley and sister Dolly, Keyrouz
Hoping a bit of their chants splash
Upon my face, moisten my cheek
The plainsong allays my ears
The walls settle back, solid
Into the shape of a room,
Still on the sea, now a silence, We share
Full of space, it invites your wishes to be written down upon it. Then, as soon as you jot or type something within its parameters, it looks back at you and tells you more about what your wishes then you knew. A rectangle of entanglement, trouble and love within borders, the space is…
It lulls you into a sense of control, then lets loose your words, out, into an area larger than infinity. One little word or sentence stubs your toe or swells your head. Most likely both, leaving you in a state of ogre, the state is…
Ogre. They eat humans and your words are eating at you. Ogres carry large spiked clubs, a metaphor for your pen. You pound your club/pen onto the blank page, into pulp, poetry, and snarky snippets. Look at what this writing space has done to you! You are…
You wake up the next day and begin to think you have gotten it under control. You’re human again. Hey, you’re a writer. It’s tempeh and rice, it’s tofu and garlic, it’s a bowl full of kale. You wash down your normalcy with a nice local cabernet. But, the blank page is like a stomach growl, because some little word or phrase gets stuck in your ogre gut. You then hear the words that start it all, that little gobble, gobble in the back of your head that says, Wild Turkey, pot roast, and pie. Fat is….
The blank page is an empty dinner plate, bone white china. You are searching for when the fat lady sings. She has tendency to sing loud. It’s all about finality. About knowing where to place a period. You have double-spaced, with 12 point font and still the rectangle filled with your thoughts, squirts from under your lucid typing and splatters upon the eyes of the most interrogative reader. The reader is…
You, the blank page, full of space, wishes written upon it.
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