Laughter is the silk that touches hands
woven with the flair of fairy wings
caressed by cartographers with no plans
to map the throat before we start to sing
Falling on each other like the rain
splashing in the gratefulness of glee
winding in our rivers and our flames
shooting up like branches on a tree
Graceful buds blooming in the sun
flowers with colors bright and gay
shaking with our spines until we're done
and we begin dreaming again
Guided by the gilded cage, the yellow canary in the cafe
Denied trial by the police, sitting in a prison of penmanship
Poet with a tilted hat, black skin, earth in each line
Fixed the face of the mechanic, frantic with panic
strumming the magic mandolin
erasing the tragic pendulum
swinging like a trapeze in a big band
Lord,
have,
mercy,
she's going to
jump.
The dog-eared leaves wilting on the trees
it's a cold spring day and they need water
while the breeze off the lake picks up
and the sunlight rises like a python out of a basket
snake eyes hypnotize me for a moment
before I zip my coat.
The whirring sound mixing with the engine
of the diesel garbage truck and its big clanking noises
which eclipse the softer shades of brown
on the bark
as the wind
shuffles the branches quietly
like a tired dealer
shuffling the deck
at the eerie casino.
Fog covers the night
All the streetlights look like moons
The cab leans to the right
We are on Lake Shore Drive
The driver and me
he is on the phone
His voice is deep
I close my eyes
The charts are tipping over
from
aLL the Lines
the quadrants full of aXis
flippant and fiddling
razors sharp with wit
According to the newscasters the data is in...
up.
but
We have no where left to go
Run rabbits run
Eaten by the wolf, for he is hungry...
The dill pickle criminal sick and subliminal
Tuned to remedial, punked on residuals
The hot dog of omnipresent despair
pays her bills, takes her pills, roars like a lion
sign on the dotted line, and run up the hill
the garden is full of perennials
the menial laborers weeding on their knees
picking up the tiny, invisible, scattered seeds
The soul of the soil: stones, minerals and trees
These days, we are so busy as society...
redefining what it means
to be a thief.
We love to point our fingers
like the branches of a snarled tree
growling like the wolf
justified to the teeth
but have yet to master the random art
of the wildflower
blowing in the wind
silently
colorfully
amongst the weeds.
Read this poem up from the bottom.
I like to hear the coffee grinder whir as the galloping beans disappear into a cup of chocolate sawdust.
My clothes iron makes a sound like a whistle when it's hot. The steam is singing.
The shower faucet, as it spins, eeks and gawks, like a ghoul in the wall tapping drunk morse code.
When I was little, the bathtub faucet made a super satisfying KONK with overtones when the water was shut off.
The beige bricks and the canyon side have the earth in common, yet a journey stands between them.
The East window is sky-blue with scattered clouds simply due to a reflection.
We are full of the sky if we let ourselves be a mirror.
We can build if we allow the rocks within us to be excavated, crushed, stirred, formed into cubes, dried, stacked, aligned, slathered with mortar, and bit by bit we are raised.
What a long journey we have when we choose to be a brick, compared to when we choose to be a window.
There is something rather satisfying though, about baking in the sun. And glass, well it's far too fragile to bear some travels. When the rain comes, it bounces off the glass, running down in like little rivers, where I trace my finger. The brick wall, I hardly notice, as it soaks in the rain as it runs down the gutters into the alley.
Shortcuts are more than tempting they are addictive
With technology they are also abundant
But just like she said to sell the shadow to support the substance
content sure makes you look busy to your "boss"
or whoever you think is watching
nowadays it's Big Brother and Little Woke Sister
they're all onya waiting to pickyapart and cancelya.
or worse, SOB! ignore you.
So you better post, boy you better post.
I've got a mission today. The thought of putting the cat in the carrier makes me so nervous I'm about to jump out of my skin. When my sister and I tried before, the cat escaped, with a great deal of drama and screaming. Truly, there is something to the saying of letting the cat out of the bag.
However, I have a strategy. Chicken soft gluten free treats. They only cost $15.99, which is a lot of money for cat treats, but, if they get the cat into the carrier, so be it.
I imagine it will be like if someone put me in a box and gave me Cheeseburgers.
Let's see how this goes.
I love cat sitting and the cat's name is Kavetch, which I heard means something like "bitching" in another language. He's been here a week. His fur and dander is in my nose, but it's incredible to have another heartbeat here. His pink and black nose, and his attitude, please me.
I can't expect the cat to not be a cat, and I can't expect humans to not be humans.
Cats need to be lured into a carrier, and humans need to be lured to new ideas.
They may think new ideas will hurt them.
I walked out in the sunlight reflecting on the blacktop
to wait to meet my friend who is bringing me incense.
When he and I talked, he also gave me sweets
wrapped up in brown paper.
The sunlight and the cool air makes this memory,
along with the smell of the incense
and him telling me to put tinfoil
on it so it doesn't burn too much
and to create just enough of a mood
while I am playing guitar or chilling out.
When I light the incense
I will imagine the sunlight again
sifting through the trees
and the cool breeze.
Thoughtfulness is the memory,
incense is just a smell
to remove the everyday
and lift us to the divine.
What is more than divine
than the Earth, Heaven?
I am way too simple to know.
I had an odd thought today
that poems are not meant to be my own point of view
but an expression, a proof, a mission, an attempt
to put my own language on an altar
and to prove the worth and beauty of my language
to the world.
This counteracts everything.
No expression, no story, no vibe, no juice.
My car doesn't matter, just the road.
Looking at the road out the window,
is one language more beautiful than any other
inherently
or is it the ideas expressed
which are lovely?
Image source: https://www.lonelyplanet.com/articles/california-hwy-395-road-trip
A road trip along California’s Hwy 395 from Lake Tahoe to Death Valley will take your breath away © Mark Read / Lonely Planet
In the early morning outside I
passed the girl on the sidewalk
Her covered with a face mask
Hunched over like the hunchback Notre Dame
I waltzing by in running shoes
With holes in the toes
Motivated for a morning walk
Ready for whatever comes my way
She was more concerned about preventing
Illness
And I was more concerned about
Capturing health
Chasing it
Even