Poem Seven

I approach two kinds of questions:
the internal
and the external.

the emotional considerations regarding
appropriate work ethic
and appropriate work habit,
matters of being motivated
(or not)
to dig
and matters of digging
as leisure,
only suitable for bourgeoisie
ladies who lunch
or only fitting
in addition to
or after
other paid employment.

the practical considerations
come and go,
the internal monologue
at intervals
and mostly concern
important matters like
who's been pooping in the garden?
what does squirrel poop look like?
are you, Squirrel on the Electric Wire Above,
the asshole
burying acorns here?

The ceramic gnome
disregards all this
as he slowly
becomes buried
by the cast-aside
wild strawberry
I am clearing.  


Poem Six

The Extravagance of My Idleness

each day I want for nothingness
for stillness and solitude
for the sun through the windows
no noise
just the quiet ticking
of idle leisurely thought.

lists of tasks
build up,
clogging my mind
with the debris of guilt
eventually forcing movement
toward accomplishment
achieving becomes an imposition
of necessary grandiosity.

Yet the longing in my heart
steadfastly ambivalent
regarding torpid dormancy
spectacularly mundane successes.


Poem Five


When the darkness started,
there was a half moon
and a million new stars
we lay in the yard
listening to crickets
and inventing constellations.
I pointed out a submarine
that floated toward
a ten-tentacled
squid monster
drinking tea to one side.
you described
a hillside of sheep
chasing the barbarian hoards
ready to eat them.
I couldn't see this, but
you swore that each
twinkling was a sheep and
those close to another
were capturing and devouring
a half-giant.


Poem Four

the sunlight
glows on floorboards
casts shadows
of chair legs
and I stare from
out my teacup
of coffee,
what it is
for that light
to burn you.
for that light
to be enough
to set fire to the skin
when summer comes
and the thermometer
hits 80, 90, 100 degrees
then that sunlight casting
shadows cross the dining room
even the cats retreat.
I miss that heat
I long for it.
I am waiting
to be brought back
to the point of boiling.


Poem Two

Untitled Criticism

I cannot recall
if the wildness of your curls
undermined or reinforced
the sanctimony
of your ranting.
Did they betray
your incessant self-assuredness?
How cool you kept yourself,
your emotions held neatly to your breast
never indulging your suffering
(until you did).
Was the idea to be invulnerable?
to be ever reasonable?
To use logic as a lifebuoy?
How does that work?
I need you to explain it to me
because all I’ve ever been is
a fury of emotion.


Poem One

What Was, Want Was

it was supposed to be
I was supposed to be
steady as a kitchen table
scraped for years by family flatware
and the teeth of dogs making off with chicken legs,
supportive of frenzied can’t-wait lovemaking
and a place to lean while breathing through contractions
(huge-bellied with the fruit of the good earth)

it was supposed to be
sweet like nectar
stained by the red burst of berries
and flowing honey
while rivers of sunlight crossed on wood floors
and the drifting scent of flowers perched in jam jars and old cola bottles

There were, of course, to be pockmarks,
scars faded to a smooth finish
and the strained stretched flesh across fingers
weathered and worn
yet warm and wise

it was supposed to be rich
heavy as cream
the glint of glass
the sound of wind chimes
the heat of sunlight
ultra-saturated and over-exposed
image as memory

but this table shakes.
the story unfolds in fits and stops
then tumbles out all over itself in puddles
broken, bloodied.
it is cold and shivering
unchained, non-linear.

it was not to feel so paper thin
brittle and vulnerable
so unmoored and uncertain

this history was to be carved of wood
worked by hands and shaped by weather
yielding yet solid.
In its place, I stand unable even to be cupped as water in hands.
I am writ instead on dried leaves that break and blow away,
I decay
I diminish
small and unsteady,
a story comprised almost entirely of holes.