Skip to main content

Aggregates

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.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.
Post a Comment
Read more

First Snowfall

with minute focus the sun finds me it's a mirror I can't ignore first snowfall  extols the glory of winter and sunrise explodes into a billion shining moments   bouncing snowy limb to limb I am the trampoline  learning to find resilience in the synergy of 10 am  when radiance is bucking its boundaries erupting with an ode to joy pretending it's just an avalanche surging sunward on tiny feathered engines and if I resort to chasing the jet-streams I'll never learn the art of making my road  authentic  and bringing us home
Post a Comment
Read more

2020 Pandemic Journey Day 44

May 4, 2020 Today’s idea – What has the fog of our modern conveniences begat? I read an article last night published in 1950 by Berton Roueche’ titled The Fog . In October 1948, a toxic smog settled on the borough of Donora, PA. This town is tucked away on a meander of the Monongahela River in the Allegheny Mountains.   During that time, it was home to three huge mills, a steel plant, and a zinc and sulfuric acid plant. The towering factory stacks of these industries pushed out thick plumes of coal smoke all day and all week. Also, given the town’s proximity to the river, boats and trains added their emission to the cocktail. To seal the deal, Donora sits in the topography of secluded bluffs and hills that allow for little or no wind to carry the smoke and fumes out of town.   So the place was known to be a smutty, smokey mess, tolerated by residents who referred to the sulfurous stench as the smell of money. On this weekend in October, a thermal inversion put a tighter li...
Post a Comment
Read more