****** Hornets

I have been feeling,
Of late ...
that the ****** Hornets have missed us by miles  
And they are sure shot  
Tangle with the most like daggers  
  
Leaving an Unkindness of Ravens  
Furrowed brow  
(If they’d had any)  
Over eyes  
Narrowed in on outlines in chalk  
  
But figments and scatter  
Shadow people  
Who stand and walk away  
Under the cover of bold sun  
  
It might just be okay.. ..  
  
The newspaper green at its memory  
When pages had fluttered from  
Martyr  
To  
Martyr  
  
Worst to worst  
  
Might the best reman?  
  
I feel of late it might have been  
A narrow miss  
An allegorical  
Cause and escape  
  
Whether the cage door pried?  
Weather  
It matters  
  
The Sunshine be bold on backs  
That once crawled and drew a curious flock  
Un shadowing arms
  
That once  held the hands of clocks

To see this highway,
And a vision beyond it
Beside it  .. running along like threads that hold the keep  
Dirt roads that come to the middle and end  
A front door open ,
And shut a thousand times and holding its secrets still..    
  
In my rear view ,  
And front.  
A haze of dust collected there  
  
My eyes are wide against rest.  
A yellow line will spin out hours ahead of me before they find comfort and closure against a pillow  
  
.And the moon and stars make work of my imagination.  
Residuals and lasting impressions dust my dreams.
  
Scorched coffee  (pause)
Sugared bites,  
And the road I travelled ,  
  
Well economies.    
  
Not glimpses into the usual, or typical  
Exactly,...  
but glances towards an American Gothic.  
    
Perhaps even the Abraham of the streets
  
(Long thoughtful pause and deep pull of a Redbull)

Would I stoop to consider these,
Remove myself from self titled Shaman of the Netherlands  ...
and dive deeeep into the Delta.

Musky scent of both decay and renewal,
Let it be heady.
Let it fly fast into downed windows through fingertips extended and waving through the wind.

Learn  by feeling and leaving  ...
experience.
But no intent on living there.

It has served some purpose
My human being
My strength in episodic reach
The collaborative effect
Come pheromones to nostrils
That rounds pupils
Breaking out in embrace
Skin to skin for a moment
Though it might chance souls touching

My human being alive
Being proud of her show
Being far beyond anything she once hoped to have appeared
In the other minds eye
Let alone ..
daily plans
Breakfast
The normalcy of toast and butter, jelly
And knowing exactly how we like each other's eggs prepared

Discrepancies the thickness of yolk
Minor and shades of yellow like discourage
It was un brave of us to fear the trembling

....
But so very human being of us to begin the act
....
So very

And on and on
This comfortable horizon

....
So very human being

Iced In

I am almost certain this house is shrinking  
I have begun to watch heavy mouth breathers as if they were mine canaries  
And have duct taped down the stove tops  
so that no Cabbage or Salmon or other viscous pungency invades what’s left of my senses  
  
Last night I slept on the couch for a change of scenery in which to dream  
My dreams have become complacent  
I wish they contained urges like mine  
I feel they hold to investment in my desires  
  
My longings are being held hostage by a man in a boring brown suit who would never dare try and pull off a black fedora  
He can only move me  
By a rope and pulley system  
  
It feels unnatural  
Without the odd pleasures of the surreal  
  
This environment suffocates my ability to self stimulate  
My imagination bounces off of four grey walls who’s ugliness is approaching like a step sister  
She creeps towards me and scuffs her shoes  
She breathes heavily and I eyeball her impending fall  

Surely this storm will be the bounce house death of me
By body splayed out in an un natural position to chalk around on rainbow colored parachute fabric
I hope I allow the look on my face to say it  all

A deep affection for more

The woman sings:
“Don’t leave your little girl in the wild, the sky is turning black”
Of loves torture and trauma in an elliptical South
Of pale skin exposed to a hellish son
Once her heart was signed in blood ink across a dotted line
It hurt
And it stunned a permanent mark upon her face
And so she hoarded comforting words
Of lingering beauty and deep pools for eyes
Rations to nurture poorly a malnourished
and abused vanity
Her fingers found themselves
Grasping at tiny things
And disheveling all around her what she thought was neat
To tidy it back up again might tip up her chin
A story heard:
A cobbler fixed a question mark heel to an aristocratic boot so that the Man in question, could walk above other Men’s waste

She prays night and day for the perfect pair of Devil’s red stilettos

Hillbilly Girl

She took the cake
Fat bottomed
Momma slip dressed no shoes
Whiskey’d breathe
(enough to make a cow dizzy)
To her the simple life
Had been a religious pilgrimage
One heavy hillbilly who loved a good bargain
Her Guru Man
(between her thighs he’d lie)
Placing bets with tobacco juices
The piney scent of chainsaw remnant
His perfume
A heady mixture to inhale
For this tiny girl
Her rear had plumped practically overnight
For his poison
Her bottom lip had found
A permanent place to shove itself
(and still her spirit had not taken a hit)
To the hilt she took to the woods
Birthing babies in the holller
(consecutively named after him)
1
2
3
They dropped and rolled into their own
Her bottom got fatter
Her ******* remained high
(one never snubbing the other)
And though her book
Threatened to become a dusty one
It was leather bound
A valuable artifact in her eyes
(no other God would thumb through its pages)
But to the end her Guru Man
Would see it as very well
And so the stones she gathered from living.
Would build her a palace in this backwoods place
Fat bottomed lil Momma
She took the cake