Thursday, January 24, 2008

Aggregates (phase 2)

Each morning I meet my crazy quilt
bright eyed, in from the edge,
spectacular as Easter’s ilk
eggs tuck in ditch and hedge .

What’s so crazy about a mantle
pieced from robe and shirt,
summer culotte, tartan flannel
destined for the dirt.

Each day a junta erects regimes
Of arms and legs and balls
Time is bottled, black deals are sealed,
piked heads fill the halls.

What’s best about hegemony;
when sovereigns step aside?
Begets a tidge of larceny
and mayhem for its a bride.

Crazy Quilts

"Think of chaos as dancing raspberries."
- Judyth Hill from "Wage Peace"


How the morning meets us matters.
A crazy quilt met mine.
I woke with a pigeon’s view of Easter
processing down Peachtree.
What’s so crazy about a blanket?
Pieced like family jewels
from denim jacket, brocade skirt -
my clan spread eagle.

Truth is - juntas stalk regimes
with kudzu enterprise.
They’d freeze time to collect enough
arms, legs and testicles.
What’s amiss with coup d’├ętat?
Glorious in stealth,
they bring justice home by its scruff,
savor the spoils like Hampshire boars.

finds the writer who consummates
work with good whiskey.
Good and bad saturated Thomas.
Catlin's fire matched his muse.
Nothing kindles like lust and duty
to goddess and queen -
purple robe lifted by salt wind,
her ruddy fuse goading the tide.

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Stolen Glory

I would trade for a better dessert,
Trade it in for the white skirted waitress.

Her chocolate and cream holds its own allure
So does thirty three footsteps

When there are bullies in the play ground.
Give me a hop for good measure.

Instead of snapping gum in this cold depression
Between Sir Hillary’s expedition and the cold comfort

Of sliding home alive, I could be still as a pond
Crouching under a roof of stalactites,

Dodging the icy daggers that pin me to my word.
Summer rain comes so seldom, especially now

Under the January skies of the northern hemisphere.
My unwashed hair chides me to trade it for a better season

Trade it in for apple blossoms and hummingbirds
and wilted lettuce salads.

But these icy daggers have their own allure,
They hide me from the bullies – across the playground

now chasing the scent of some other prey.
I’ll give it a hop for good measure.


Every morning my crazy quilt meets me
bright eyed, in from the edge.
I might as well have a pigeon’s view of Easter
processing down Peachtree.
Tell me what’s crazy about a blanket
so carefully pieced from robe and jumper,
summer blouse and kitchen curtains.
It’s my Ursula Clan spread eagle in slatted sun,
stitched together with more than thread.

Every day a junta pieces together its regime
arms and legs bound in testicles.
It bottles time – cramming clock into calendar.
Even in sleep it’s abuzz with jolts of blood
bullied by heart and lung; abuzz in kudzu dreams.
Tell them what’s crazy about conquest; tell them
even the tightest stitches loosen, even the best fabrics fray.
When water and sun exact their tithe,
everything red fades to green.

The force that drives that fuse drives the Fundy tide;
drives Thomas to down 18 shots of whiskey,
drives Caitlin to hedge her bets that he’d ever make her happy,
drives her albatross view of the corduroy sea between Wales & Milk Wood.
Tell her what’s crazy about a life fat with lust and duty,
tell her she's queen of the bard.
But talk fast - she’s halfway down the hill
purple robe whipping, back bowed to the wind,
fingers sowing sand with salt.