What of the lives lived in valley,
in canyon's shadow,
and endless doubt? Will it rain?
What if I doubt it?
What of the traveling salesmen, door-to-door.
The wholly subjective buttoning
of rayon-blend suit coats over cheap
dress shirts. What difference
in the distance between a red farmhouse,
its weathered-gray equipment shed?
Between the tamed mare and the mustang colt?
One historic assayer's office
and the bakery made from a bank?
Multi-family complex, and the highway, steaming
with new asphalt left to cure?
One more block, we weary bargainers say.
One more pair
of steel kitchen knives, another bottle of tincture.
Another matched trio of red
ceramic vessels.
One more bit of the Self
and I'll head home.
And never mind where the money comes from, tonight.
It's only a few dollars for cream honey, for day lilies
to brighten the windowsill.
Every tree on this block is swathed at its base
in carcasses.
Once a cacophany, cicadas now dried, brown.
Detritus of some May-pole too withered to dance.
I shall cover the rent for this life
somehow.
What audacity we practice.
Don't tell me what to do, he said once.
I won't, I muttered.
Just don't leave me.
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
Sunday
I.
And I had never cared
for lavender. Had never wanted myself
to smell of cleanliness, of a white sheet
folded just so. Had never wanted
myself.
II.
Bran muffins, granite countertop.
Shelves full of books dog-eared, gray.
A cream-colored guitar.
III.
To take count:
a stock of breaths, not in nor out,
but every sixty husky seconds.
Still. And the same. Yet, still...
IV.
And when my hands were idle,
I climbed in beside her.
And then we were two bodies
supporting a body.
Not a trinity.
Not as one.
V.
Outside this open window
was once a greenbelt, she said.
Look down there. That birch.
Once, there were others.
VI.
I asked what I could take.
What could be carried home,
as if somehow my back, my shoulders
could bear it.
I did not expect to hear
ashes.
VII.
A mother enters, and is asked
to trade velveteen blanket
for the cool, clean, white sheet
she carries.
First, she must sort it from the gray
t-shirt, some socks.
From under one pair of navy
boxer shorts. And these
she places, folded,
in the dresser drawer.
VII.
And I had never cared
for lavender, save for now, on her wrists
and his temples.
Save for the scent of it filling
the bed on the white sheet.
Had never cared,
myself, to witness.
She says, ashes.
A siren begins on the street below.
And I had never cared
for lavender. Had never wanted myself
to smell of cleanliness, of a white sheet
folded just so. Had never wanted
myself.
II.
Bran muffins, granite countertop.
Shelves full of books dog-eared, gray.
A cream-colored guitar.
III.
To take count:
a stock of breaths, not in nor out,
but every sixty husky seconds.
Still. And the same. Yet, still...
IV.
And when my hands were idle,
I climbed in beside her.
And then we were two bodies
supporting a body.
Not a trinity.
Not as one.
V.
Outside this open window
was once a greenbelt, she said.
Look down there. That birch.
Once, there were others.
VI.
I asked what I could take.
What could be carried home,
as if somehow my back, my shoulders
could bear it.
I did not expect to hear
ashes.
VII.
A mother enters, and is asked
to trade velveteen blanket
for the cool, clean, white sheet
she carries.
First, she must sort it from the gray
t-shirt, some socks.
From under one pair of navy
boxer shorts. And these
she places, folded,
in the dresser drawer.
VII.
And I had never cared
for lavender, save for now, on her wrists
and his temples.
Save for the scent of it filling
the bed on the white sheet.
Had never cared,
myself, to witness.
She says, ashes.
A siren begins on the street below.
Tuesday, June 18 2017
I'm over-caffeinated and stressed out.
And I'm talking about death and dying with three different people.
About where to carry their ashes when they
or their loved one are gone. Adding to the pinheads
on a map where you cannot touch the monument
after it's built.
Because, inevitably, it becomes a riverbed.
An ocean floor. Nothing but sand.
Becomes the ground.
So I'm not writing. Not today. Today I search
for road races that force their runners off-road.
That don't end for days. That begin and continue and end at night,
because, you see, it's better to use the shock
of the heels, curvature of back against the heaviness
of an up-hill. Than to use the eyes.
Than to attempt to peer at the Earth
while you're carrying it. Spheres, orbs.
On the back of the spider are a thousand more.
Scatter me here, please,
they're saying.
A trail of silk on the wind.
And I'm talking about death and dying with three different people.
About where to carry their ashes when they
or their loved one are gone. Adding to the pinheads
on a map where you cannot touch the monument
after it's built.
Because, inevitably, it becomes a riverbed.
An ocean floor. Nothing but sand.
Becomes the ground.
So I'm not writing. Not today. Today I search
for road races that force their runners off-road.
That don't end for days. That begin and continue and end at night,
because, you see, it's better to use the shock
of the heels, curvature of back against the heaviness
of an up-hill. Than to use the eyes.
Than to attempt to peer at the Earth
while you're carrying it. Spheres, orbs.
On the back of the spider are a thousand more.
Scatter me here, please,
they're saying.
A trail of silk on the wind.
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