My sisters thought
we were cruel, us boys,
tying a length of thread
around a Junebug's leg
and having it fly 'round
and 'round and 'round
and 'round above our heads
until Junebug broke free.

Junebugs knew how to
have fun back in the day.
So did lightning bugs. They
made the coolest necklaces.
My sisters didn't like them.
Girls don't know fun from
Junebugs on a summer day.

r ~ 5/29/14

Alone in his dark apartment
black dog asleep
the sound of children playing
in the street outside his window-
children of color, his housekeeper says,
not quite seeing the distinction
only hearing happy voices-
an old jazz number on the radio
as he stands and dances slowly
with his cane tap, tap, tapping
to the beat and dreaming of a girl
he once read about named Helen
in a book of braille.

r ~ 6/6/14

She spreads her yellow wings
To sun and sky an offering
Gold nectar dew she brings
To Ruby-throat a'humming
Sweet song of waning spring
And lily in the morning.

r ~ 4/6/14

Ours was less an Arab Spring
and more a half-hearted coup d'état.
There was no immolation,
no burning desire on your part;
no passion in the streets of you.

You stole in at night
through a window I'd left open,
a crack in my need
for something more than mere
existence.  From me there was
no resistance.

I let you lead, and followed blindly;
my voice I raised on your behalf
against all that I had known before.
Your words, your whispers
alone could incite me to storm
against the strongest walls.

Now, as summer comes
and this sectarian affair,
this spring uprising
that we called us has ended,
I sweep the streets of our debris
and wander down
the empty avenues
of you, half-hearted.

r ~ 6/5/14

Painted ponies of the Paiute
Run against the sky
Cracked lightning lights the orange fire
Desert winds stoke whipping flame
Eagle flies blind to the sun
Scorpion strikes out in vain
Antelope leap crisscrossed arroyo
Coyote calls across the sand
Thatched huts explode in maelstrom storm
First People’s shadows smoke the ground
Clay pots crack and break in time
Fire-cracked stone in communal circles
Markers of forgotten stories
Great Basin parched to cracking lines
Full moon wanes to yellow bone
Awaiting dark clouds quenching rain
And painted ponies once again.

r ~ 6/4/14

The carpenter builds
Spilled blood on a board
And under his nails
Smashed black and blue
Indigo on a page
Words sharp like a saw
Cut to the bone
Twice measured then honed
On the streets
Alive with a beat
A rhythm and rhyme
He's counting time
With a rat-tat-tat
One nail at a time
Straight is his line
He drives it on home.

r ~ 6/2/14