Emily Dickinson’s Refrigerator

‘Twas the vinegar that tippeth

Toward the leftover quiche

Oh, lonely empty bottle, recycler boon

When sun meets to kiss moon—

And mustard, your yellows bold

A bit old, but still at play—

Mummified lime, plastic lined

Awaits blessed water of the fizzy kind—

Four salad dressings,

Daughters of the virgin oil—

Bright Wednesday’s sauce

Must find solace at all cost

Before the scourge of poisoned moss—

A couple of red jellies

To keep a merry belly

Harvested during the sweetness

Of His grand spring—

A dire few leaves of spinach

Must be eaten in a pinch

Or thrown into a stew anew

Cat food can, oh my love be content  

Yet, small miracles abound

In these cool vestiges—for—

Behind the onion skins

And forgotten slice of apple

My hand moves with assured fate—

Look at what Providence hath left!

A cold beer is found no less!

O, wonderous workings, I’m blessed.

 

 

 

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Tiles

The tiles have a series of cracks, a map of years. Years reshape, transform into twists, gnarls, fissures. Without the years, he thinks, the present wouldn’t look real, authentic, contain beauty. The present, always polishing, rebuilding, gentrifying, trying to reface the past. But one can’t forget the past, shouldn’t, even the bad stuff, especially the bad stuff.

Evil is a beauty. You must look at it with careful, discerning eyes, wise eyes, eyes that cry without distorting reality, eyes that know evil can be unstable, eyes that know it can take a bite out of you when you least expect it. Sometimes, you must bite it back…hard.

He places his hand over some cracks, cool, slightly rough, rests… until a spot becomes warm. 

 

 

Traveling Near the Dark

There’s a quietness about the river

broken by a random leap, splash of steelheads.

a prairie hawk loses a feather.

The natives drink a loud liquor

on their fishing platforms, dip nets

looking for fish who choose

to become parts of ceremonies.

 

The valley refracts strong light

that moves with the quiet.

Hills are made of dead gold,

skeleton orchards, lost spirit guides.

Bear scat litters small pastures

where the river overruns its banks,

forming shallow pools.

I’m cautious like a fool and listen.

 

The sun sets earlier here.

I knew that going in

I’m searching for rain or shadows

They only last for a short period.

My phone drops, small echo

Black screen on slick green moss

I yell for some reason

Maybe to prove I can make a sound

 

The sun throbs red…west…hovers

next to the peak of Mt. Hood.

Highway 14 yanks at me with its noise

where occasional deer lie still

on the shoulder of its pavement,

small trickle of blood in their teeth.

Dusk is as good as night here.

 

I run.

Moira (given name)

 

The creek doesn’t have to be aware of us, but we’re always conscious of the creek.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Receiving a Fine In a Station of the Metro

Derrida’s Graffiti

The apparition of these fare inspectors in the crowd;

Donuts with icing, cream filled full.

 

 

The Ocean Welcomes Me Back

She knows me.

Though, I haven’t seen

All that she is…..

All her anger and angst

Frozen at times, treacherous.

I know her

From the safety of my footing.

She can pull me, She pulls me, I am pulled

Not by ebb, but by longing

A craving for our meeting.

She allows me to see her.

I am but painted doll

Easily tripped into a fall.

We are cyclic, together.

Friends as we are

 

I see her placid face

Fierce, reflecting sky.

Her cheeks aged, rippled

As they were at the beginning.

She’s my crone

My witch of calm

Curled slightly

With wavy hair

Rebelling,,,,,

The straightening of her tides.

Her voice, mesmerized magnetic

To my metal ears.

Grounded by emotion

She nudges me

To a rhythm depth tone.

My womb vibrates

With her motion

At the same time

I am her birth.

 

Her movement is mine

I am she, like her,

The invertebrate

With liquid body

Skin of whatever color

You wish to call me

We are deep in wrappings

Around dense mineral

Earthen cultrate creatures

Terrestrial mud makers

That simple creation act

Pottery, clay, and figure

Shaped by moisture

Solidified by solar storm.

 

I feel like she is forever

Whose depths

I know by kindred.

We raise our spirits

(For me, this once)

To mist and cloud

Transform, evaporate

Until our salt

Is yanked from our souls

And we fall

To new fawns

of phosphorescence

 

 

If I were to say

“Listen to her”

You would have

Already heard

Labyrinth

Coyote Wall, Washington, February 2019.

Click on image to enlarge.

More images found here.

 

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