I’m distributing
the wealth of my wisdom
in that real laissez-faire way.
Between blacks and whites,
My service? It’s grey and uninviting
As I’m uneager to please,
fighting friction with ease
and pictures and writing.

This King’s Road
My rose petal garden
As I pick myself up from my roots.
I shake and shiver,
Jitter and jive my way through
This living almanac                  of fate:
Some Velvet Morning in my cup
Of coffee,
     Some luck,
     And a mission          to create.

I write in the mornings, first thing,
and I want my pens where I placed them last time.
Black ink, V5s.
And here I am scribbling with a marker
you got at that conference last summer in Hillside.

“2022” it reads.
“I’m sorry,” you say.
The soft words of your deposit
encourage my acceptance of their kindness
and suddenly,
There is new money
in this old bank.

   I’m thankful for that.

   I’m thankful for you,
   this Great Design, and now
   my pen inked blue.

The water on the ground
Is no longer fake,
As I take a look in the rearview.

Huh, I’m crying.

And it’s in this moment
I take a second
To accept the fact

                  I miss you.


Oh how I wish
I’d known,
Before driving
These backroads   alone
My heart and soul
Are objects of old,
And bigger

                          Then they appear.

That this pathway to heaven
Gripped by desert horizon
Was just escape for a women
Who cannot function
And is blinded
                          By fear.

Well, that’s life.

I tried.
Goodbye.
I ride.
Until the end of time,

                          My dear.

She won’t yell
She won’t fight
                              
                              or cry,
                              or scream.
I'll write.
You'll listen.

Let me tell you
What I mean.

The handbook of my heart
Is one
For the birds,
As I am
Because I do
When there simply aren’t words.
So Sunday’s swan song
These little loaves
of love—
                    A bread of pray
                    For a safe journey home
                    My sweet turtle dove.

Me and my journal
Got those old country blues.
Turns out,
White hot heat
Doesn’t make
for a 'Brown River, Smile'.

So,
    I cried some.

Then bought eggs. And flour.
And sugar. And butter, for cake

    And made one.  

Because young life during hard times
In old country
Isn’t left with much else
to do–

    Just make something beautiful
    And hope to get through.