The river of vile
that streams through the main living room
your bile
and into crowded basements
now a flood plain
well,
it doesn’t compare much to your smile
and as your body lays heavy
heaves,
contorted, distorted
reaching for boulders
that erode quickly into sediment
hapless in attempt
your parents disinterest now retorted
hapless self directed contempt
flowing
with pants shackled at ankles
o’keefe sweet lips flower showing
pink
you drown
and sink


and crickets chirp
and fish swim

tonight, darkness engulfs,
as it usually does.
the sun hides its shame behind the light of the moon,
only to rise with renewed power in the morning.

i find myself wishing i could speak to the sun.

if i could,
i'd ask it to stay down,
to linger in its dormancy,
to grant me the luscious solitude of the night
for just a little while longer.

because for once i am okay.

for once, i find my mind quiet --
knowing all the things that are painful to know,
and yet not holding too tight to them.

and i enjoy it,
this silence -- of mind and of world.
but i am not naive,
and i know that the sun will not spare me,
will not spare anyone,
nor will it give so much as a whisper
in response to all my feeble wishes.

so for tonight,
all i have is tonight.

all i have are the few sunken hours before dawn
when i can be at least somewhat free --
freer than i've been for a long while.

and that, though momentary,
is enough.

(a.m.)

Midnight’s glowing solstice moon
From moonrise to moonset-
She feels, hears, sees
Magic, crickets, skunks, dew-

She’s summer.

Too much to do
But I'm not lazy
Too much to think
And I'm ever complaining.
Is it my fault I wander?
That these crickets in my head
Never lay down to rest
They just buzz and jump with laughter.

I walk beneath the shadows of dragonflies and
in fields of stunted daisies
A witness to migrating monarchs
Whose voyage is eons from being completed,
when they only have 3 weeks at most to live.

I walk in pale fields of dusty sunbeams
and loud fading moonlight
Humming crickets play accompaniment
to solo pairs of feet, making way for still creeks
and large lily pads
to find a nice place to think.

Moths float out from behind
an opened, warped door.
I push my face into your clothes,
hung heavy like pearls
in an antique shop.
Stale and familiar,
the scent follows me
like a lost little bee.
It buzzes even after I leave.

Hopscotch down the hallway
to find dead crickets
in the bathtub.
Scuffed wallpaper camouflages
a cobweb. Metallic vines
curve around bursts of petals.
I’m certain you chose this pattern,
but I don't know.

Memories are few.
I fill in the holes with honey
and arrowheads.
Indian feathers and
an old brooch.
Piles of pie.
Did you love to bake pie?

Games of bridge
on that old, scratched table top
with a musty deck of Bicycle cards.
Each deck a photo album
of your face.

Your raisined face.
I remember holding it in my hands.
“This aint a walk for old womans.”
And out the door I go.
Empty handed and independent.