This melancholic music
in a twelve-bar sequence

my baby left town
and left me nothing
but my sneakers and her wedding gown

this melancholic music
in a twelve-bar sequence

my cat is scratching  at my bedroom door
I can't give her any more
than I gave her last night or before

this melancholic music
in a twelve-bar sequence

whit howland © 2021

a fleshy formless blob
pickled in plasma
under glass

I've long ago stopped wondering
where the time went
stopped

planning
dreaming
stopped

things meant to come will come
things meant to be
will be

stopped

a fleshy formless blob
pickled in plasma
under glass

whit howland © 2021

dry clean only

pigtails
in an inkwell

baptism
sacrament

see label for care

sing
"Shove it"

purify
ritual purification

use bleach
rinse and repeat

wasted on Saturday
Sunday we pray

flagellation

free from sin

the pulley squeaks
as we  take the clean clothes off the line

whit howland © 2021

Strange object at sundown

Brittle heart

Living off the salt

Fighting for survival

Faithful as dogs

Broken as rock

The soil taking its soul

In the blaze of the sun

Stinging itself to death

We say we don't
but we do

things don't just fall from the sky
but they do

suction
the production

of a partial vacuum
by the removal of air in order to force

fluid into a vacant space
or procure adhesion

that night those things you said
where did they come from

whit howland © 2021

~
Silver water
flowing out from under
moon-less-ness

Beautiful daughter of the stars
dancing in eclipse, remembering
the season of the sun

And how her
calculating love survived
its long hibernation
~