she was hot, she was so hot
I didn't want anybody else to have her,
and if I didn't get home on time
she'd be gone, and I couldn't bear that-
I'd go mad. . .
it was foolish I know, childish,
but I was caught in it, I was caught.
I delivered all the mail
and then Henderson put me on the night pickup run
in an old army truck,
the **** thing began to heat halfway through the run
and the night went on
me thinking about my hot Miriam
and jumping in and out of the truck
filling mailsacks
the engine continuing to heat up
the temperature needle was at the top
HOT HOT
like Miriam.
leaped in and out
3 more pickups and into the station
I'd be, my car
waiting to get me to Miriam who sat on my blue couch
with scotch on the rocks
crossing her legs and swinging her ankles
like she did,
2 more stops. . .
the truck stalled at a traffic light, it was hell
kicking it over
again. . .
I had to be home by 8,8 was the deadline for Miriam.
I made the last pickup and the truck stalled at a signal
1/2 block from the station. . .
it wouldn't start, it couldn't start. . .
I locked the doors, pulled the key and ran down to the
station. . .
I threw the keys down. . .signed out. . .
your ******* truck is stalled at the signal,
I shouted,
Pico and Western. . .
. . .I ran down the hall,put the key into the door,
opened it. . .her drinking glass was there, and a note:

  sun of a *****:
  I waited until 5 after ate
  you don't love me
  you sun of a *****
  somebody will love me
  I been wateing all day
  
  Miriam

I poured a drink and let the water run into the tub
there were 5,000 bars in town
and I'd make 25 of them
looking for Miriam
her purple teddy bear held the note
as he leaned against a pillow
I gave the bear a drink, myself a drink
and got into the hot
water.

Bar Pickups
She had been riding pleasurably
For over fifteen minutes
And she kept asking for more
She kept making me hold back
But I couldn’t find much passion
In the eternity of fake moans
She was moving around on top of me
Head back
Yelling from a real moan
“Not yet! Not yet!”
All while routinely taking all of me
I pretended to be at a lost
And prematurely out of control
“Oh, baby, it’s good, it’s good”
And erupted
“*******,” she said. “I was almost there”
She had also said that about fifteen minutes before
“But don’t take it out though”
She was so wet with an open invitation
That it slide out by itself
She took my pride
And held up my limpness
Like a piece of meat
Before she slung it
Against my inner thigh
Poured herself another drink
And asked between sips
“How long will it take?”

Not the lone glory of an orange
basking in Depression’s dusk—
its fluted bowl of purple glass

Nor the fall ways of amber
Leaves burned by roadside
curling smoke’s sun-lit sash

Not tree-lined streets
rabid leaves’ raspy voices
whirling giddy in the wind—

...in none of these

But in the moments I filled with fixing
a lamp shade
painting this place
to a stern perfection

...I thought of you
ordering the tyranny of me
the glass of me
the concrete conscience
I must be right!  Mustn’t I?

The religion of our lives
Driving through Sundays with Polkas blaring
feeding the ducks
and a roast at noon
Waffles and TV later
Lassie and You Asked For It
Wiping my mouth on a Sunday sleeve

I asked for it, alright

He came and went
to the smell of Ice Blue Aqua Velva

He came and went larger than life and first on the scene
to hurricanes, fires, muggings, and races
and of course—THE SHOP!
in an amazing array of uniforms and vehicles
Ambulances, wreckers, pickups, and police cars

He was terrifying! Wonderful!

We would love at a pained distance

His cabinet in the cellar was always locked
But now, just suppose—

if a kid were to haul on its handles...
supposedly—the sheet metal would heave and roar
with the thunder of him!

And those late nights
those harsh ****** lights
lidded hundred watt cones
in the spotlight of THERE
where I wasn’t
in the odor of oils too noxious to dare
beyond the girlish shadows—

he cleaned his guns

I waited and watched where everything seemed
to be
What...?
It seems—he just pushed her against a wall!
I step from girlhood
with my two-cents worth
and it seems I will not be Queen for a Day!

I take my vows!
I swear I will not scrape wax
from the corner of the kitchen floor with a knife!

I have waited.  I have watched
the routines of his mornings
He’s brushing his teeth; he’s combing his hair
he’s tying his shoes while he chats with the cat
I can tell you the creak of the stairs
and the sound of his footsteps rounding the house

...the routine of his return at supper
the routine of anger
My routine of being late—
and as good as dead
squeezing behind—
HIS CHAIR
Praying he wouldn’t notice the mud
Praying for the epiphany of his good mood
when the TV and me--

wouldn’t be blamed for the downfall of the nation

On the west side of Starlite Dr.,
just inside of Kingfisher -- before the welcome sign,
stood a Wal-Mart.

Underneath dim lot lamps,
dry oil caked the cracked pavement.
Crickets hopped over cricket corpses.
Two employees took turns lighting new cigarettes
with the still-hot embers of old cigarettes.
There were six sedans, two pickups, and three semi-trucks
outside the store.

2 a.m.
Parked car.
I noticed an effulgent memorial on the fringe.
Subject unclear from a distance,
but statue certain;
gleam of bronze certain.
Followed the black chain-framed path
to a lemon brick-backed display:

Sam Walton
Hometown Kingfisher

And there you stood, Sam.
With a bobble of a bronze head,
gorilla arms, and some charcoal
canine frozen mid-pant to your side--
Beams of light shining into your carved eyes,
yellowed grass at your feet.

And I wonder,
Did you feel cruel?
Beginning as a Five and Dime,
then turning into the great killer of Five and Dimes.
Sitting at a table telling all your friends, they could watch you eat.

Too forward, too soon.
You being dead and all.

To be fair, I've got that ambition too, Sam.
The kind that leaves you lonely.
The kind that leaves you in the back booth of a diner.
The kind that makes the dunces conspire.
Yeah, there are very few differences between you and me.

Those being
I'm not a cartoon statue,
crickets aren't crawling on my face,
big-bellied tourists don't pose and snap photos at my place,
I'm mortal, and you're the other one.

Looked around.
Stood in front of you.
Stared in the direction your obsidian eyes stared.

You overlooked the traffic.
And though Target gets all the hot, middle-aged women
and fiery college kids,
you get the pleasure of watching real folks leave.
The tobacco chewers,
the moms of six,
the grease monkeys,
the third grade teachers;
the grandparents
all simmer and meld by traffic stop.

It seems fitting for you, Sam.
Watching over us,
your consumers.

Not much happens in these parts, he would demur,
As if he’d be asked in the first place,
He one of the dwindling few remaining in this dwindling town.
Nevertheless, he has seen his share in four score and change years
From the vantage point of his place
Which sits just off the corner of the Penoyer Road:
Boom times and bust,
Snowdrifts threatening to lick the roof lines of houses,
Boys running through the embers of fallen leaves,
Shirtless and barefoot on improbably warm October days,
Young men in hay wagons and rattle-*** Chevy pickups
Laughing and singing, confident and carefree,
Making their way to the old train depot down at Apulia Station
First step on their way to show the jerries or the VC
Exactly how Upstate farm boys took care of business,
Windows adorned by placards with a gold star
Illuminated by a solitary light bulb at odd hours.
Here and there, younger types have begun to dot the landscape:
Professors with a romantic hankering to get back to the land,
Neo-hippies with their own reasons for embracing the rural life,
Each in their tune walking about their yards
Holding keyboarded and wi-fied replicas
Of that which Moses carried down the mountain,
Their fixer-uppers or double-wides adorned with small dishes
Pointed forlornly at the horizon in search of some satellite supplication.
While he has seen enough not to be too ******* sure about things,
He suspects that complexity and contentment
Rarely walk hand-in-hand,
So he keeps his needs simple enough
To be met by the ancient radio
(Huge, wood-cabineted shambling thing,
More attuned for Amos and Andy than All Things Considered)
The three-checkout grocery in Tully,
The Morton-building sheltered family practice over in Cazenovia
(The squalid, sooty skyline of Syracuse,
Split by six lanes of high-octane madness,
As remote and slightly terrifying to him as Mars itself)
As he has learned enough from thickets of trees
Which all but shriek with torrents of crows in September dusks,
The subtle changes of stream banks
Tinged by the stubbornness of frost on early May mornings
Or blanketed by the pig-iron forge heat of July afternoons,
To know that there are sufficient and possibly necessary limits
To the places where two legs or four wheels can carry a body.

I'm sick

I'm sick of every filter
I'm sick of fake photographers
I'm sick of fake philosophers
and Instagram pornographers
I'm sick of the fake feminists
who don't understand the movement
I'm sick of fake politicians
who make no ******* improvements
I'm sick of all the favorites
I'm sick of all the likes
I'm sick of ******* tinder
causing cheating every night
I'm sick of ******* eyebrows
like who ******* cares
when did we become so obsessed
with ******* forehead hair
I'm sick of religion
I'm sorry but it's true
it's caused so much division
in our red white and blue
I'm sick of trump supporters
who never read the news
they want to close our borders
but don't understand the ruse
I'm sick of fake people
who pretend for us all
cover their old selves in diesel
didn't hesitate or stall
I'm sick of Caitlin Jenner
she/he whatever isn't noble
committed ******* manslaughter
yet still remains boastful
I'm sick of post it note relationships
that last for three weeks
it's not a ******* battleship
just make the proper tweaks
I'm sick of all these hookups
it's become a culture
all of these pickups
initiated by the vultures
I'm sick of everyone caring
about what celebrities wear
I'm sick of overbearing hate
that never ever spares
I'm sick of all the judgment
of how a person looks
I'm sick of everyone watching YouTube
trading it for books
I'm sick of all this money
that we will never see
I'm sick of never knowing
what I'm supposed to do
I'm sick of schooling never showing
how to live our lives through
I'm sick of all this debt
that I'll be paying until my death
Im sick of feeling like our society is *******
but most of all I'm really sick
that this list has applied to me too.

Self professed trees surgeons , insurance agents , water damage  "consultants ! "  Jack leg carpenters , news crews , would be electricians , handymen and " rubber neckers ! " The fly into town , apparently in the first wave of the storms ferocious winds , perusing  potential customers for quick cash , price gouging courtesy of shade tree operators ! They stand by their brand new gas gulping pickups , smiling and self absorbed like they're doing you a favor ! If it wasn't for the tornado scattering my possessions , I would fire rock salt directly into your *** without reservation ! This may seem like a " backward Hick town " with thick southern accents , old pickups and overalls !  Your true intent is quickly visible , your " modus operandi " is quite evident , if your still here at Dusk kind Sir , may your God be with you !

Teeth chatter and butts raise above seats,
Riding pickups atop the corduroy road,
Thunder claps of rubber bass beats,
Slapping the undercarriage's rusty odes.

The tires rhythmic riffs are risky,
Clavinet keys echo wood beams over muddy water,
Walter Murphy drinks a Fifth of Beethoven's whiskey,
Leaving superstitions for Stevie to Wander.

O Ye what are you waiting for?
Fly on the wings of hope,
This sky is waiting for you
The shadow is fed up of staying
Fly on fly on until you reach your goals

Obstacles are milestones to cross
Determination is a shield of dreams
Make courage your ally
Go past the mountains and valleys
Fly on; Fly on until you reach your goals

Start may look awkward
Initial hiccups will be pickups
You will master the art of killer instincts
Worries will evaporate with distinct
Fly on; Fly on until you reach your goals

Nothing is too big or small
The destination is giving you the call
If you fall, then rise up again
Show your back to the walls
Fly on; Fly on until you reach your goals

Time is waiting to salute you
History is waiting to write for you
Books are waiting to catch your story
Your name will find a place in the golden glory
You will be immortalized in everyone's memory
Fly on; Fly on until you reach your goals

The old farmer hung back,
as rickety and battered as the
‘50s Allis-Chalmers tractor upon

which he leaned, hunched,
clung, as if the auctioneer's words
and the wind might carry him off

like the implements he'd treasured
much of his life, machines with
which he had toiled and sweated

and which had helped him chisel
out a meager existence in his
40 years on the farm. His wife was

dead now, his children scattered
like the clucking chickens and hissing
geese, all he had left were memories

and the old homestead, and it was
leaving him bit by bit on the backs
of creaking pickups and low boys

and stuffed into the cavities of shiny
new Cadillacs and Buicks. The cruel
wind had driven in from the southwest,

stealing a little more topsoil from the
threadbare farm, swirling and *******
at tattered curtains still hanging in

the mouths of grimy windows left ajar.
With each piece of his life leaving
down that gravel road, a draining

of his dreams and energies followed.
A few more raps of the gavel and he
too would be as dust in the wind.

--

Some in my family say
Uncle Sam was my salvation
when I was a young man
hell, maybe so, I don’t know
but he kept me out of jail
and paid for my education
which is how I found myself
in West Memphis, Arkansas
surveying Indian mounds
that some fool professors thought
were put there by the Choctaw
but I knew they’d got it wrong
all along, it was the Mississippians
which makes perfect sense if you think
on it considering where they put ‘em
but I digress, I must confess it
was my fondness for backroad bars
and blues guitars carved from wood
of crosses burnt by drunks in hoods
and strings plucked by calloused fingers
of old men with shoulders slumped
like sagging barns and Ford pickups
you find out in them parts, singing
songs about long gone women, all
kinds of aching age old pains lingering
enough to make a man’s heart rain
until the US Army Corps of Engineers
blew the levy’s to send those tears
out across cotton fields and mounds
I know the Choctaw didn’t build.

You had two pet rabbits, one named Mickey the other Maurice,
who lived on lettuce bits and behind thin metal bars.
A caged environment set up on the study's wood floors,
with books and a red couch to keep company

and your mom, because she would finish her graphs and stats
on the mahogany desk living in the corner of the room
and she liked the rabbits purr and delicate noses
and would hold them and pet them

when she put down her pen and moleskin and accounts
because, although caged and bought at Pet World
in the strip mall across from Adult World
on the other side of Interstate 67, these rodents gave her comfort,

reminding her of Maine and Jonathan
who abstained from going and killing for sport
with his brothers when they went, in pickups
with buckshot and murdered deer and rabbits,

because she still missed Jon and bought these fluffy
white creatures for 47.99, a good deal,
and they came with a little rock house
that they could sleep and burrow under

like Jon and herself, snuggled in Maine,
away from Palo Alto. So every time I come over,
to have *** and eat dinner and listen
to what you learned to play on piano,

I stop by the study to see Maurice
and Mickey and feel the presence of Jonathan
and the sticky suburban sadness of your mother,
while keeping a secret promise close to my heart,
that I'll never become an accountant.

I passed the homeless man again today
in the university library

He walked past me, and I
stood there, clutching myself

He wore a green striped shirt I wore the
other day, but it was wrinkled

I stared at the muted wall of foreign
television channels
you need headphones to feign comprehension
or imagine travel

I saw...
The Indians dance in brightly colored clothes
The South Americans advertise libido enhancers
and Europeans replay explosions in South-Western Asia
or watch soccer
Africa was just a dusty road with jeeps and pickups
and guns

I wore that wrinkled shirt I wore the other day
to the library

I walked past the 24 year old
watching the world go by
hugging himself
in this way that assures me
he, too,
knows loneliness

I was just five years old,
and Montana springs can be very cold.
It was time to go hunting for some
poor creature, men with rifles bold.

Off we trekked to the Bitterroot Valley.
A line of cars and pickups a mile long.
Hunting camp set up by the men first.
Then the women with bustle strong.


Daddy led me by the hand to a place
where the water was knee deep
to a giraffe...but I had rubber boots with
a yellow ducky,  that never made a peep.

Suddenly adults were flying and crying,
running here and there in fearsome flight.
I did not understand what gave these folks
such a sudden and terribly awful fright.

Seems I stepped in a rattlesnake nest,
I thought they were cute little worms.
I wanted to get one for daddy’s fishing,
so I started to reach toward the squirms.

Now, baby rattlers can bite seriously,
but I had red boots with a yellow ducky,
and their furious little bites were not
able to bite, through boots...Lucky.

But those fingers reached out - well,
they were snatched by an aunt who wailed,
and no one told me why they were so tense,
to each other the story was detailed.

Innocent as lamb was I about those
reptiles that looked so cute and harmless.
I never knew my auntie had saved me
from being bitten and  being armless.





Post Comments

She smells like summer
And you sir smell like smoke
She smells of butterscotch and raspberries
You smell like a man who’s broke
And can’t afford to shower too often
You’re just a filthy *******, yes you
But it’s ok when she gives you a light
This beautiful cowgirl smokes too
She hands you a Marlborough Red
(Nothing But), and helps you understand Jack
She’s stitches you up when life plays rough
She’s straightening the crick in your back
So you can walk upright again,
Wow she says You are very brave
Let’s go down to the town and fit you out
Let’s go to Bradley’s Barber and get you a shave
All warm and smooth, all lathery
And a warm flannel on your face
I’ll give you a buttery kiss on the lips
If you’ll just pick up the pace
Us cow girls are strong ya know
We bail in the fields 9 til 3
But you’re a heavy thing
Guess we ain’t as strong as we used to be
But  please don’t think that
We’re all lipstick and gloss
She begins to laugh softly
We ain’t afraid to go into the moss
And get our hands *****
No sir, it will never be that way
As long as there’s a Bud at the end
That will be the perfect sort of day
Do I have a suitor? Hahaha oh you
I think I scare them all out of town
I just like riding in old pickups
And watching the sun go down
From mama’s veranda on the porch
I will go *****-tonking all over town
But as much as I like a game of pool
I don’t need no man to hold me down
I just liking living in nature
And I like just living free
And if a guy can’t take that
Well that guy ain’t for me
There’ s a lot I want to see
There’s a lot I want to do
And do I need to be tied down?
No, said the old man, it’s true.
There’s very few women left
That think the way you do
Oh stop it she says, your flattery
It’s a nice try, but coffees are still on you.

we earned our stripes
playing out on the road
in towns you won't find on the map
we play whatever
the crowd wants to hear
and one time we even played taps

yeah taps...that's right
one time we even played taps

played a bar last night
real funky place
the backroom was also the jail
you got drunk on one side
then they'd lock you up
and you could pay the bartender your bail

yep...you could pay the bartender your bail

The towns that we play in
Aren't really that big
What most call a forest
The band calls a twig
we play country music
we can knock off a jig
but to call us that famous
is like kissing a pig

we've got two pickups
an suv too
and a minivan rusted to bits
we play rock paper scissors
to see who drives where
then we pack up and hope it all fits

yep...most nights we hope it all fits

we play behind wire
in some places we go
it stops the bottle from hitting the drums
we asked the bartender
if he thought we should leave
he said you do....next they'll all pull out their guns

yep...everyone there all had guns

The towns that we play in
Aren't really that big
What most call a forest
The band calls a twig
we play country music
we can knock off a jig
but to call us that famous
is like kissing a pig

Bleary, dreary bifocals looked out through seeing eyes. At the maze of apiculture before him. He pushed a cart his whole life, never stepping up on the ledge to ride it.

Every Tuesday night, his fist packed tight full of ones. Uncrumbling, Washington from his back pocketed jeans. He'd lay him out flat, on the desk, like I should be impressed. One pack of cigs please.

He'd take his cart, around the world & back. Show kaleidoscope girls a good time. Because no matter how pretty that **** picture was, no matter how many times you tore it a part...it was always ugly. Just like the make up, that caked up the beauty on her face.

Parking lot pickups, corner cat-calls, was all she would be worth, a penny in the gutter, if she was lucky. Face up, grasped by hands that'll never love her. Such a steep price, for such a cheap use of love. Generic.

He tells them, he loves them as his boots slide on, comfortable. Too much in a hurry to take his socks off. Humming, Spin Doctors under his breath. He breaths heavily, like he worked so hard that day.

She holds onto morales like lose change, change is lose when you're use, to anything. That shows up on the corners on a Tuesday night, with something new to ignite. Not just the ciggerate between his lips. Lion skin, hipocrathy.

I lay the bills neatly in the drawr, wondering what price he really pays for the stress to relieve his mind. What price does the girl pay, how many clinics does she visit in a year. Baby girl YOUR NOT AN ACCIDENT, YOUR WORTH MORE THAN THE WORDS THAT HIT YOUR CHEEK LIKE A SLAP YOU HAVE MORE POTENTIAL THAN THE MEN YOU LET COMFORT YOU INTO THIS ABUSIVE SOLIDTUDE. YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL, I WOULD SPEND EVERY CENT I HAD JUST TO SIT & TALK WITH YOU.

**Luke 7:47
"Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”"

It was a time of mad irreverence, of lawless bedlam
When the shackles which bound our restless souls
To the tiny wooden cells
where we worked on the arithmetic  chain gang
watched by the warden of words and numbers,
she who ruled that house of order with an iron fist and a wooden ruler
were  stuck off, and lost all hold on us

It was freedom, and it burnt hot and wild in our veins,
the heat perhaps intensified
by the sweltering oven the sun made of every inch of unshaded ground
In the feverish, mad world of summer, we were kings
We ruled, and laughed at those who would rule us
Foolish, reckless dangerous, unstoppable, crazy, free,
Young

Untamed,  shameless, we ran in droves
And the clamoring, thunderous roar of laden pickups
Music and laughter spilling out of the windows
Seats stuffed full of hormones and hedonism
Dominated every lonesome dirt road in all of Arizona
We drank and smoked and swam in a sea of uninhibited adolescence
And then it was over, and we went back to our chains.

It sits out in your driveway
a glittering metallic sculpture.
It costs more than your house,
you love it more than your spouse.
You can hardly drive it, it’s too high,
you can barely park it, it’s so wide.
Like an exotic compulsion, you need it,
though you can barely afford to feed it.
There’s a cockpit with winking tech,
offering a printer, wi-fi and refrigeration.
It can pull a house off its foundation.
Is there a tendentious ecological statement,
in this prestigious monster you claim is for work?
Is the fact that it’s tax deductible just a perk?
With this polished and pampered machine,
you get the rewards of effective parenting,
as it literally reflects the care that it’s given.
It’s a spaceship ready for expedition,
what else in creation is as elysian,
as your gigantic pickup truck.
.
.
songs for this:
Dreamin’ by G. Love and Special Sauce
Driving by Everything but the Girl
Get Me Some by Drew Love, TOKiMONSTA & Dumbfoundead

Sorghum syrup , sold just off the National-
highway
Boiled peanuts , pecan divinity
Period pickups , gas fired grills and turkey cookers
Busy , rugged maple rockers , curious roadside onlookers
Store clerk dragging a Salem , orange vested
hunters with a fresh deer ****
Restaurant trailers with hot dog , cheeseburger-
entrees , malt shakes and fried dill pickles
Big rigs on break in cracked asphalt , brown grass-
jungles
Dusk , closing down a rural exit ramp
A tiny town barely on the map ...

Gentle muzzle
velvet soft
lipping at my palm
searching for the treats,
sugar and molasses
a rich combination
only a good horse
earns.


Supple leather
worn smooth
over years of dedication
and application
that comes from
this sport.
Nights
already promised ahead of time,
three months earlier,
hauling to deserted fairgrounds
a dusky sky setting the tone
for lead ropes
threaded
through stock trailer slats
cow dogs
running
up down sideways
trailing owners between horses legs and rusty pickups.

Tacking up
underneath floodlights
set to the soundtrack
of jangling spurs
and soft nickers.
Younger kids
hanging on the arena rails
drinking syrupy sweet
soda
a tradition
root beers before your run
good luck
in our community.

Foot in the stirrup
old braided reins in hand
leather,
broken into submission,
pliable
under years
of use.

Slapping hands
with other riders
who already went
horses,
slick with sweat
foaming at the mouth
ready to go again
with rippling muscles
still taunt in the sticky summer night,
aching for one last run.
three turns
and a gallop home,
don't care about the money
unless you beat your last time-
your only competitor
is
yourself
and
the
clock.

Hard packed dirt
pounded down by hooves,
tails swishing at flies
as you wait
for your turn.
Adrenaline and happiness,
an addictive cocktail,
these are the nights
I
love.

Melted snow and dusty streets.

You and I had to stop.

We’re drawn to places

of power, like roadside

attractions. No matter how

cheap or quaint they seem,

they’re free of cliches.

Here it was, a shrine to

Route 66--even if it was

just a ***** painted banner

on a faded tan brick

gas station wall:

“LAST TOWN BYPASSED

BY I-40 ROUTE 66

WILLIAMS, ARIZONA

OCTOBER 13, 1984.”

You parked the rented car

on broken pavement.

You had to stop and take a

picture under the sign and

between the parked Sequoia

and mud-covered pickups.

You don’t know to

pray, but you know how

to pay attention,

how to halt and idle

in the exhaust of diesel fuel.

Really, what else should you

have done? Doesn’t everything

disappear too soon? What door

will you open now that your

sacred window is closing?

In this world I suspect everything
has its importance
I live in a southern town
an area well sown with secrets
Full of gold stars and hard badges
Full of litter on the backroads
where pickups back up and push
old things downhill
I live in my skin like a nice woman
I dab my lips in the humidity
From sea to shining sea
I watch from the shelter of a chickadee
All the roads are repaved but I sense
dirt roads reddened underneath
I am careful of my culture
lush and drunken with magnolia
softly cold and beautiful in Winter
I sit on a wooden bridge and swing
my legs in slow motion
The waters below dazzle tricks of light
I dream of finding another cautious soul
Naturally friendly I wave at God
in his better world

The pickups across the alley seem asleep. No lights, exhaust fumes, man at the wheel ready to wheel into another work day.
Winter-denuded trees blend into his roof like dark rivulets from its peak. No lights in this dawning Saturday, all still asleep.
Except the birds feasting in the newly seeded bird feeder. In the softness of this new dawn their flights are silent.

The fog shrouded morning suffuses softness to hard edges.  Clapboard storage unit rests quietly on the edge of the lawn.
Rakes, mowers, hoes still asleep, no work tension in their bodies. Fallen browned leaves lay on still-green lawn gently carpeting “the back.”
Cold black fingers of tiny limbs indistinguishable as individuals, smudged and blending instead. No limber bending till months-away spring.

Trees in the distance surrender their stark names to clouded sky not yet brightened by the distant weakened sun. The fog has laid upon this place
a muted harmony.  No dissonant horns or voices heard in this diffused snooze of now.  The only movement: from the winged creatures
greeting the day just yards away reminding: life still pulses. I fall into this peace.

The fog of sleep
a hallway moment away
where my self is mellowed
and lost beneath the sheets.

I walk through the streets. I watch the fights, the pickups, the undertone speaking, the voices, the laughter. I think, I think. What is happening to this world. I don't get it. Am I thee only one here with a mind and heart? My soul fills with thoughts, though I do not speak. No, for it's not my time. The voices of people. The voices roam towards me. I push back. People's words' have brought me down. Killed me. I will listen, yes. But I will not care. Only the voices of trust, honesty, and forgiveness will be thought of. The voices of you're mouth to my mind. The voices, the voices.