Scabs from early summer's bug bites are falling off
with hardly any effort or noticeable pick
just like the things on my summer to do list
that I already completed.

Scabs more recent continue to itch and rescab after picking them
some I put under a bandage to keep me from scratching them
and picking at them
just like the projects on my to do list still in progress
and some forever projects that may remain unfinished

And flies and mosquitoes continue to buzz around
which I have gotten good at squashing whenever they light
like projects that pop up and don't even make the list

In just a few weeks Autumn will be here
and the entire list will be wiped clean,
finished or not, and some projects will be put
on the  list to think about this winter
regarding whether they make next year's list.

A yellow notice on the gate with bold letterhead states
Noxious **** Commission and then, in small­er red print, declares: 
Demand Notice to Remove Thistle.

This n­otice is a sudden smack behind the noggin. 
Bringing attention to­ a purple, spiky blossom 
on top of an orb wound tightly around a­ ball of seeds, 
swaying in the breeze and heeding this question:­
What did you do?

To make the County use its bureaucratic might ­
and declare thistle plants a blight, a public nuisance 
worthy o­f persecution.  And any resistance will cause 
an appearance befo­re a judge who'll levy 
fines and imprisonment.
What did you do?
­
Shock begins to wane and reason filters into the brain;
this thistle, that goats devour like its a treat,
it explodes into a cotton suite that birds 
use to build a soft nest and squirrels 
a cozy den for all their kin.

Is this order just about the plants by the gate,
or does it include plants used by bees,
or the plants that help pollinate veggies?  
Or the pretty blue thistle splashing color
in an otherwise rather dull foliage -
do those count too?

The notice drifts off into the finer print of legalese
using words like must, subject to, and other decrees
and then it ends with this call to arms - Declare War On Thistle!
But whose side am I on?  And, when I am in jail,
will I get my thistle tea?

I saw the devil today
With horns that curved away from his head
I saw him on that hill, gnashing his teeth against the earth to pull mother nature's children from her grasp
He attacked his brother! Using his own crown to charge against the innocent
I saw the devil today, his irises slanted in the wrong direction,
His beard knotted in lies,
Had hooves that trampled and left unwanted marks,
And how he stares at the lamb with malice in those putrid eyes!
A creature of hell doesn't belong here!
Oh God! Save the poor lamb from his mischief
He'll be sure to rope her towards the wolves
And leak her red-hot death over the chips of dirt, infecting her skin with unholiness
But she remains pure, with pure white fleece that can never be dirtied
The lamb! Who cries for her mother
The lamb! Who remains helpless in all her strength
The devil. Who with his darkened fingers I refuse to allow into my sanctuary
You cannot heed the lamb to sin, sly creature!
My woolen eve must be sheltered from the song of the snake
O God!
Today, I'll rid this land of evil
And soon, the devil is to be dead

I have given you the bakery,
The flour mill,
The barn,
I have passed the keys and title
To these allegories of
My heart entire,
Placed them in your care,
Expecting the deeds to your
Estate at some point in return,
Your physicality,
Your romance,
Love
And your desire and yet
Your response is nary
A crumb,
Let alone a slice or a loaf
From even my own oven,
The flour that I have planted and grown,
And harvested and milled,
All counts for nowt,
So I'm folding those deeds away now,
And watching and waiting
To see what crop
You choose to reap instead,
What crop,
Which farm,
And indeed with whom.

From Publius to Livia

Livia, I write to renounce your fields,
My sweat no longer yours to claim.
My harvests fed the eternal city,
Yet you see only Gaius and his shadow, Marcus.
...
Blind to the furrows I plowed,
The terraces I raised, the grapes I nurtured,
I tamed wild Ceres before you came,
Turning forest to field, field to farm.
...
Then you arrived, trailing discord’s hound,
Gorging on Gaius’s hollow praise,
Stealing credit for my toil,
Casting me as a shade on your wall.
...
I prayed to the Capitoline Triad,
Offered a white bull to Jupiter, king,
Begging radiant Sol to burn through your guise,
And bless my path with brighter horizons.
...
To Juno, I burned frankincense and myrrh,
Pleading ****** to sweep you astray,
Your pets adrift on Sicilian shores,
Left to Polyphemus’s wrathful gaze.
...
To Minerva, I poured my own wine,
Urging her to unmask your arachnid soul,
Your arrogance a web of self-woven lies,
Dagger-tipped legs stained with stolen blood.
...
The gods have heard, Livia. Your weave unravels.
My fields await under noonday sun,
While yours wither in my absence,
Your perfection a fading, frail deceit.

Signed, PERTINAX

In one of
my many
lifetimes, when
I was a child,
my dad had a
sprawling stretch
of land in
Missouri.
He had 200
head of cattle.
We used to run
the cows we
bought at auction
through this
shoot with wooden
beams that closed
on their necks.
My stepmom took
this gun-like object
and put an orange
tag in their ear.

My brother and I used
to play with this black and
white steer.
We called him old #56
because of the number on
his tag.
We chased him, and then he
chased us.
I felt bad for
him, the tag in
his ear.
I talked to my
dad about it.
He said if the steer
ever got lost,
we could find him.
I felt good about that.
I didn't want to lose him.

One night
the following summer,
we were sitting down for
dinner.
I hadn't seen
old #56 for a while.
I asked Dad where
he was.
He didn't say anything.
We were having
t-bone steaks.

As I write this,
my black and white
kitten, Bukowski,
bites at the pen and
tries to wrestle my
wrist as it moves across
the paper.
I'm glad that he
isn't a steer.