No poetry tonight!

It is the poet's duty to keep the poem from spinning off into speculation.



"Three guys came, drunk, and the drunkest said he couldn't find his mother's gravestone, and they started a fight."

"Ed went out and they threatened to beat him up because they said we got rid of her grave."

"Did you find it?"

"Yeah, it took awhile to get the proper name, and, of course, they were in the wrong graveyard."

                                          

On the Street at Night

slow through yellow roses

that haven’t bloomed yet

or budded

slow, the flank, the nostril

I follow you while I guide you

as you amble close to a ground

soil, edible, marks, scents,

a brambly riot of last year’s

dried pods, grasses

I cannot know

stained,

with passings by,

tendril of fur
soft,

your eyes, milky
with age.

                                          

A Day, any day

A poetryless day where the
morning smolders with cold
mist. White shadow glides
around trees, cars, buildings;
figures emerge and disappear
as they walk to moments
of meeting.

The sun roves white
as the moon, then
becomes a thin rind
of lemon.

In the afternoon, lit by
its brilliance through
windows we eat
cheesecake and fresh
blueberry sauce
with crisp
sweet tea.

_

(NaPoWriMo #7)

                                          

NaPoWriMo Day 6: When day and night merge

Day is late; it is too late. The latte evaporates,
dry coffee grounds lie in the cold mug. The
thump when the car hit your body remains, as if
the echo effect is broken and repeats, thump,
thump. Metal, soft tissue, bone splinter.
Concussion of my heart.

When antelope dance over rock, smudges of
charcoal. In the cave day and night, and I
wouldn’t come out.

You were alright. You walked away, a bit
bruised.

I bled internally in my dreams, the pillow, the
sheets, under the car tire grown large as a
ferris wheel. My blood sometime ran like
Van Gogh’s wheat fields, the residue of burnt
souls. The ferris wheel ran day and night,
even in deathly winter when everyone
was absent.

Each day the sun comes later; no, earlier.
The green fury of spring is nearing like a
virescent bush fire.  The sumacs are pregnant
with multiple birth buds.

Who is reading me on this day that is later than
all the other days slipping under the wheel
as the tire drags on.

This woven bone, these smudges
of burnt wood,
these buds of spring.