KPF2 wants to publish your poetry on today's topics without commentary. Let's let our poetry do the talking again! Send up to three poems in an email message to donkingfishercampbell@gmail.com
His mind shits on to October thoughts;
dying, hibernation, death, sacrifice
he watches the sky for the returning comet,
misses the northern lights
chastises himself for his sluggish nature,
then remembers,
this is no longer his time,
he is simply an observer,
an elder, who remembers a few things
to pass on.
I had closed the cracked window.
The first gust of wind, flute, drums, and
fleeting movements—
explosions and distortions—
vanished into the approaching rain.
It was like slowly dancing with
the image in the mirror, or
fragmenting memories of love
to clear the mind of emotions
consumed by the summer heat.
I sat next to a neighbor
whose husband had been
a soldier in Asia until
he was shot in half.
He had always been
among the best.
The movement accelerated
without music,
creating tension and
evoking feelings of
euphoria and chills,
similar to a movie sequence.
The dancers wore white sashes
around their heads and
pirouetted at a high tempo
to create a lively movement.
The window opened,
bringing the noise of the metropolis and
the smell of the wind.
It didn't bring a fatal infection
like those found in polls or
left by lost civilizations.
It was only a rainy wind.
These bacteria are real and
can transform into weapons,
unlike in Disney animations.
Life is not an illusion in and of itself.
When life becomes a hallucination,
something else must be real.
Hail hit the roof of silence.
The dancers expressed God's numbers
by waving their arms above their heads,
clapping wildly, and
swaying their bodies.
The dance did not appear to
be pre-choreographed.
Ancestral emotions cleared
the mind's clutter.
Crawled quickly within the suffering souls
and began to peacefully disappear.
Hollow-eyed shades
of human beings,
human beings
cogitating on jazz music,
jazz penetrates the deep silence
of the bleeding angels,
angels in a fight for
the awakening of this blind reality,
wars,
racism,
asylums,
prostitution,
anxious women,
terrorist attacks,
public executions,
illegal immigration,
dengue fever, songs, low wages,
Zika and Chikungunya viruses,
human cells combined with mammal fetuses,
monetization of the objects
emblazoned clothes & precious stones,
Islamist militancy,
meteorite impacts,
vegetation fires,
crucifixions,
kidnappings,
sphinxes,
crimes,
drugs,
cocktails,
birth defects,
huge ocean waves,
ISIS strategies,
sexual harassments,
sales of stolen artifacts,
multiple vortex tornadoes,
quakes striking near the plate boundaries,
children murdered in egregious crackdowns,
food securities for starving people,
changes in refugee policies,
landslides, Monsoon rains, new flash floods,
seasonal unemployment,
nuclear disasters,
smiling volcanoes,
price increases,
naked bodies,
hairstyles,
dreams,
cubes,
glasses,
gas stations,
interim work,
glacier calving,
protests blocking the roads,
new theatrical triumphs,
ill kids not displaying symptoms,
macroeconomic policies,
silent strategies of democracies,
different drivers having
different styles to run their cars,
cars blinking their headlights
while their motors scream,
screaming trees and revolvers
that shoot up walls to write lyrics,
lyrics of jazz penetrating the silence
of the bleeding angels,
angels in a fight for
the awakening of this new reality.
Holy words to drive off
raised thoughts,
to cut some meanings,
to pour down all the depths,
and to warm our winter within.
Bloom of life
to accompany old songs
hidden in new hymns-
human misery and degradation.
Sufferings to rise up
in the air of shrouded sanctums.
Self-bright sun to descend from
a symbiotic sky, every evening,
to make everything golden-
the rivers, the rivers, the rivers.
Hopes to be carried home,
to be eaten like gold.
Time to be broken,
to be danced in its armor-
by hurricanes, by eternity
towards anarchy and chaos.
You thought my days were over
And all my adventures done
You said your goodbyes, wiped your eyes
As clouds blocked out the sun
Like some dear old sacred hymn
Haunts you with one last refrain
Once eulogized, one more surprise
Followed the last Amen
You thought I’d found my final rest
But there was more to come
One more wild ride as waters rise
And I am called back home
I came to the lake in early morning
to escape the walls of human existence.
Here nothing is homeless, but the old woman
carrying her turtle life in a van, trying to remain
hidden as a orphan among the trees.
What have we become? Our tapestry is
unraveling, our woven selves reduced
to some tattered garments thoughtlessly
left on a curb under a bridge, by the side
of a freeway.
To be without walls is the ultimate punishment
for failure.
We define ourselves by separation.
We do not move in murmuration, in a
Cooperation that would leave the sky stunned.
Long ago we gave up our wings for walls.
(response to April 7 photo and article by Tim Judah in NY Times Book Review)
As I watch those people
crossing the wooden plank
in Irpin trying to escape
under the concrete bridge
catching their collective breath
egged on by soldiers to cross
The rushing river with plastic
bags and knapsacks, carrying
their food, being led like children
to cross the current, the disabled
the elderly, the lame, the weak
of heart as Russian drones
hone in to attack them as targets
I think what do I have to fear?
My neighborhood break-ins,
homeless camps, hot-wiring
the ignition, broken glass, but
really, no Kristallnacht to speak of
the piling up of trash and plastic
is nothing compared to continuous
shelling, missile barrages, intense
artillery all around them.
As they cross the wooden bridge
to escape while a soldier holds a
woman's hand above as though
they're dancing a minuet--
to be stopped at any moment by
a shell, a missile, a gunshot
to rip their fragile dance apart.
Away from gunfire, mortar shells
Israeli bombardment--
turning meadows into headstones,
craters, churning earth into sea.
How to deliver us from assaults
on our senses as we see through
our rectangular vision the tanks
that trample our fields, the infantry
of camouflage that tries to hide
where there is no refuge, O give us
safe haven, a place to graze
far from here where the
hare is not in their cross hairs
and the earth is not a firing range
and we are not target practice for
soldiers who Netanyahu sends
to scorch our homes, tear up
our flocks who after all are here
only to protect the shepherds.
This evening comes early
in the fog of peace
here in Tacoma, far away
from Gaza, the Middle East.
I doze on the couch
a refugee from Budapest,
a tired traveler who rests
against an embroidered pillow.
Not a Coronation Mantle
silk restitched by Queen Zita
in its beautiful afterlife, now
under glass beneath fingertips.
I retrace the mantle, following
the patterns as I do the trees
this evening in this haze--
like a mantle blanketing us.
Different worlds, linked together
into chains that bridge
Buda and Pest, we walk across
from Hungarian to English.
Where the river flows south then
east through Romania, Serbia
and on to the Black Sea, where
Russians have been bombing Kiev.
Perico on the Pavement
I peeked through the brown paper shades
that covered our windows
He was being pummeled by another man
there was blood everywhere
Perico grunted profanities
the vato beating him was taking out all his rage
While beating up Perico, he went
through his pockets
Perico grunted profanities
he removed a wallet from Perico’s dirty jeans
The guy flipped through his wallet and threw
away family photos, an ID and what looked
like fake bills of different colors, it was Monopoly
money and I almost laughed but
Perico had blood all over his face
The man turned to look
and saw me peeking behind the shades
he smiled
put his finger to his lips
I nodded in nervous agreement
and walked away.
I was a little chavalito watching cartoons
When I heard a scuffle outside. Even now,
grunting profanities and bleeding,
Perico lies in the pavement of my dreams
Not great
it ends with applause,
a flood and wildfire
George Carlin
rolling over in his grave.
Eye of the hurricane
North Carolina swept away
politicians pay for genocide
but not for your needs.
Tighten up your belt a notch
eat, sleep, work till you die
climb the corporate ladder
don’t listen to the clatter
as children die.
How they all conspire
never ceasing fire
with a government for hire
it’s all pay to play.
Red team, blue team
reporters all scream
whatever they’re told
to trump all day.
Look at those immigrants
and Iran.
Uh oh, here we go
entire populations
buried to preserve
the status quo
as all they do is
save themselves
serve themselves
ignoring all our needs
as the whole world bleeds.
Tell me again with all
the snark and memes
of the left gone right
you vitriolic, patriotic
sham-scam liberal
alt-far-right
feeling pretty numb.
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
and I don’t feel fine.
Round the clock TV hour
elections bought by foreign powers
all they do is lie and squirm,
listen to yourself churn out
what they want you to say,
wars just escalate
as propaganda propagates.
Red sheep. Blue Sheep
not a single peep
of accountability
from either side
just march in line.
Uh oh, this means live in fear
and act all cavalier as you stand clear
of any real debate, never contemplate
that you’ve been fed a mountain of lies.
All they offer is war.
All they offer is poverty.
Well, I decline.
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
and I don’t feel fine.
The other night I saw the screen
a cosmic shift, a silent scream
a mushroom cloud, a cheering crowd
Leonard Cohen, Leon Trotsky
Stein and West, still the best
Popcorn, peanuts, cotton candy, boom
You idiotic, patriotic, red-blue-neck
Right? Right.
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
It’s the end of the world as we know it…
and I don’t feel fine.
* yes, based on REM.
I am not a flaky, buttery croissant, ripped apart, yielding steamy scents and tasting of glory.
I am not a proud poppy seed bagel exulting in cream cheese, tasting of victory.
I am not an English muffin, with crannies pooled with melting butter, tasting of enlightenment.
I am toast.
Dry toast.
Tasing of today.
Tasting of real.
I am toast.
I must confess: I’m destiny’s
manifest. Sunk like a hole-
in-one on a deserted golf course
where no one can appreciate it.
Run up a tree like a cat escaping
dogs, but now can’t get down.
My life has been a torn, stained
tapestry, that no launderers will
accept. Speaking of acceptances,
it’s time to accept the fate I’ve
refused for so long. Yes, my in-
ternal infernal clock tells me that
it’s half past a cow’s ass, and time
to cash in my chips. The problem
is, I’ve got no chips to cash in, so
it’s back to the roulette wheel for
another spin…or two, or three.
Years of electing fools and grubs
and sublimating our sense
have inured us to guilt
and tricked our consciences
so that we cannot even guess
the difference between
rats and snakes
and what lies between,
a mind-blowing stench.
wore flowers in her hair
did not go to San Francisco
had a thing about cop car
windshields
clamored up Christopher St.
lamp post
with a bag of bricks at
Stonewall. In a dress.
photographed by Warhol
frequently homeless,
institutionalized, addicted
found in river under
suspicious circumstances
an artist, her medium; life
itself
like Rimbaud
Art: Portrait of Marsha P. Johnson (acrylic on canvas) by Hana Fewster (Instagram: 'anearwig')
to sit in my chair and read your book
or my book. You are more than welcome
to take my seat on the couch, in the car,
at the dinner table, in front of the community.
You are more than welcome to the contents
of my drawers, my bank account numbers,
my passwords, my ledger of activities.
You are more than welcome to replace
my photo with yours, wherever it appears.
I have a stash of chocolate. I think you
already know about it. It’s yours.
You are more than welcome to
my knowledge and decisions,
my youthful look, my hair (!!).
When the phone rings, going forward,
it is for you, you are more than welcome
to whomever it is. You are more than welcome
to the joy I feel when the animal videos play.
You can have all my collections.
Don’t even ask. I’ll sign whatever,
You are more than welcome to my signature
my hand, my whole life.
I want to tell you we dropped our kid
off at camp today, but the truth is
he was driving the car.
Our kid drove himself to camp today.
This has never been written before.
We were in the car.
We experienced it. The double whammy
of our boy who used to be a toddler
with cheeks from here to eternity
operating a motor vehicle on the
freeways of Los Angeles, on his way
to eight weeks away…maybe nine –
I can’t bear to look at the calendar.
Speaking of bears, we’re going to Alaska
where we hope to see one.
Alaska has made no promises. Someday
we won’t be in the car when he drives
from place to place. Someday he won’t even
live in our house. None of this is normal.
A leisurely walk down Main Street
after a vegetarian tasting menu
which can only be described as
a Caligula of flavor I determine
there are many great pizzas to try
in this part of town. My stomach
won’t allow for any of them now and
we are leaving on a large boat tomorrow
so it may never happen. But if all
Hell breaks loose, and California
sinks into the ocean and the great
American experiment fails, I know
Vancouver is a viable option.
I am the jukebox in Edward Hopper’s diner.
I am the violin in Chagall’s map of song.
I am the music in a turtle waiting to dance.
I am the bowl of cherries lined up in Vegas.
I am the language written in calligraphy upon the sky.
I am the river and the lighthouse and the boat.
I am the newsprint in an obituary.
I am ubiquitous like rain.
Hold a musical note until it covers your soul.
Your memory will become blurred.
Loneliness is a verb.
Jump into a painting now and then.
Merge with an alphabet in the pages of a book.
When the world becomes too much remember,
The tin can line of all who have felt like that is infinite and eternal.
Like breath itself, reverberating on an ocean, taking in the breeze.
500 years without sleep.
The world is tangled in nocturnal limbo
while maps know our name by heart.
Insomnia brings a cup of tea and a diner.
Music plays on the ceiling and
Michelangelo reads the tarot cards aloud.
The record player plays everything
by Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Cohen and a
mystery song that twirls through the sky.
At the edge of a cusp, the world holds its breath.
The Earth is always wondering who let the air out
of the balloon and will they come back for their circus.
…Can mistaken ready for a red light
and slide wet across dry sand without
attachment or ignite and then drown its own
spark. Grey matter can ignore roots but
dance to sound; can fall fast from the steepest
side of a mountain because it looked down.
It can knock inspiration back into its earliest
seed-like form. Or pray to be grounded but float
with arms out, eyes closed and make feeling
weary the norm.
Grey matter forgets that new challengers
appear no matter how many have been
beheaded, that attitudes are invisible energy,
contagious, move without any official
word and can advance faster when dreaded.
Like the last call for closing time on
a burning building where the beams file for
divorce from themselves.
Someone observing, may not
see movement. Just lie still…Breathe.
If there is a buzz of comprehension,
softly listen, hear the absolute in your
inner voices. All the programmed
perceptions, the feeling between
emotions and the rocks in the surf,
narrow with every breath.
Borrowed shells…We are like hermit crabs,
On search yet blessed while displaced.
Ever new as we fit ourselves into the
wrap of some worn, previously used
structure.
Before I get on the red line
and I never see you again
I gotta go back to NoHo
where we used to make love
I got a call from you in the middle of the day
¿Dónde
estás chulo? Ya te extraño.
and I was in bed
with someone else
I made her mine
and she liked it. I can tell
You say I think too much like a man
Y pienso
que es cierto
she knows it's true pero le gusta
porque mi lengua es placer
que se revuelve.
She says I don't have nice things to say
because corny shit is for kids and
I'm too horny
to be polite.
Did you love him, grandmother?
South Carolina border crosser
pokeweed puller
marryer of slaves
baby producer
corn grower, maize pounder
magician Indian woman savior
Catawba or Aniyunwiya, Tsalagi, Cherokee.
Who kissed you across the border?
Tricked you into marrying
a man dark as the moon’s quiet eyes
a West African rice master
good laugher
big silver mud man with Middle Passage hands
with cool sweet milk and rice breath
who, without his moist African feet
no rice kernel
would have risen from the swamp waters
and landed
in any sardonic white mouth.
Or was it by the wheat broom’s choice?
Who blew you both open
great-great-grandmother and grandfather
with breath over palm kiss?
Good sense tickled
from the red earth’s throat
and said
you and you
and you have to go first.
It’s not Eunice’s time.
A Song of Threes (for Nina Simone)
Eunice carefully
watches and listens to the pearl sound
under the music.
Back firm, elbows up.
She fingers bones
until something else
happens.
White and black teeth sink into her.
Melodies thread her vertebra
like stars
imploding.
Cleaves to nostril hairs.
Deposits notes C, D, E, F, G
C, D, E, F, G
like a queen bee
delicately
prophetically
depositing calcified honey
into the hive of her young heart.
These two Nina Simone poems excerpted from
The Lost Songs of Nina Simone by
Shonda Buchanan, forthcoming May 2025.
If we loved Black boys like the earth
If we loved Black boys like trees
If we loved their hair like parks
If we loved their smiles like oceans
If we loved their hands like desert flowers
If we loved their shoulders like rainbows
If we loved their intellect, their dancing, their good grades like mountains
If we loved them like geodesic rays of the sun
Like freshwater pearls and cotton clouds that move like ghosts across the Indian sky
If we loved them, loved them like favorite surf spots,
like the best benches to view the moon, an eclipse, a game
If we knew we needed their laughter like rainwater
If we knew we needed their tears like spring pollen and vibrating bees
If we held their cobalt, obsidian, tangerine, toffee, mocha,
licorice bodies as tenderly as a silk night
If we cherished them like fly fishing in cold streams,
like picking food in your lome-slicked gardens
If we loved them like sailing, like sports, like a magic trick you could never figure out
If we loved Black boys like the earth
We wouldn't shoot them
We wouldn't shoot them on a porch for knocking on the wrong door
We wouldn't pull them over on lonely streets
with tragic intent
We wouldn't stalk them on bikes, in open spaces, in classrooms, in boardrooms, at liquor stores
If we loved them, death wouldn't haunt their James Baldwin dreams
We wouldn't fold them like squares in a box that we prayed over with every breath in our body.
If we loved Black boys like we love the earth
Wrapped our whole bodies around them like an atmosphere
If we coveted them like the sun, the moon, the stars we kissed under in nascent love
If, if, if we loved them
we could see them.
If we can see them
we can save them.
Black boys would be heirloom seeds we waited our entire lifetimes to find
and we could plant, re-seed the earth
with their music.
Watch them grow up.
If we loved Black boys like the earth
They. Would. Know. It.
Excerpt from my unpublished chapbook, America’s Bloodflowers, a Black Lives Matter collection.
Rivers Like Tears
Rivers like tears
are haulers of pain.
Taken away
to another world,
I drift through the
rivers and the tears.
These haulers of
pain, these rivers, tears,
the tides send me
to other worlds and
I sink or swim.
Never triumphant,
the storm sends me
reeling on hard waves
that bruise my bones
and harm my good eye.
I feel my flesh
fill with dark water
once blue. It makes
me nauseous. Now and
then I bathe in blood.
The reddening sky seems
like a wall of
pain that will soon fall.
A Night in the City
Night fills with
helicopter sound
and flashing lights;
swallowed and regurgitated shadows,
street spotlights,
metallic cars screeching,
cops and suspects,
barred windows rattling
from the outside ruckus.
The city never sleeps
with so much sound,
from one valley to the next,
there is a poem to be written
about what goes on.
Put everything in, the blood,
the tears, the pain of a night like this.
Fools
Fools will be fooled
by fools promising things
They feed on lies
as if Heaven sent and their
rebellious ways are misguided.
Why be a rebellious fool?
Why be cozy with fools?
I am wondering what is sacred
about falsehood?
The violence of sheep
who follow the word of the fool,
every word, they follow along
to a fool’s paradise.
The mind begins to fade.
It cannot reason.
They follow the voice
lost in false promises.
Head over heels, they are.
They walk through the door
and drop to the floor.
Empty promises
continue to mesmerize the fools.
They walk toward the light
after years of becoming the fool.
It is sad to see
how a fool has become their god.
we were the semi-toughs
we fought each other
we did not fight the real toughs
you could die that way!
we looked in awe at the raunchy girls
and settled for the semi-raunch
more often the girls who still
wanted to be nice
but kept finding themselves
with boys like us
we never hurt a girl on purpose
just the idea that we might
sufficed to control most girls
those who might themselves with us
and headed for a bed or substitute
we were the semi-toughs
tough enough to keep each other wary
not even on the radar of the toughs
lighthouses of trouble in our own minds
not even running lights to the toughs
hell, not even candles to most kids!
You do not have to be shattered, The still
red sun dips low, Your fur, once a flame,
but still, you walk. wounding
the horizon, catches in the wind,
The shards beneath you, glittering, bleeding into the
night. and you let it go,
cruel and cracking.
strand by
burning strand,
/\
/\
//\\_//\\
/ \
\_
_/ / /
/
* * \ /^^^]
\_\O/_/
[ ]
/
\_ [ /
\
\_ / /
[
[ / \/ _/
_[
[ \ /_/
until
you are nothing but shadow,
a
whisper of smoke,
curling
through the cracks in the earth.
No howl escapes you,
When you vanish,
no cry of defiance, the glass will remember,
only the silence of a world carrying
the weight of your steps.
you no longer belong to.
The evil has the face of an angel
And the innocent ones lose their virginity
at the hands of the hangman.
Death lies on the bottom
of the jar of my face cream
the cats, the dogs scream
with needles piercing their brains.
They are the victims
of the beauty on my face
but I can’t hold back—
because I’m the victim
of my own insecurities.
So I stand out in the acidy rain,
hold up my face and I see
my skin rotting away,
my eyes burning with flame,
my teeth stinking decay
and I become an angel
with the evil face.
Will you now kiss me?
Living on pasta and cheese, carrots and coffee,
I neglected food for music. Cassette tapes. Spending my money
on gas to get to the canyon, I walked the trails
and ate the fog. Often it was night.
And listened.
Mud print of small mountain cats, after the rain
I hiked in whatever shoes I had. Once I slipped
and slid, stopping short from where the trail dropped
into steep ravine and tangled brush. I waited.
Thought. And prayed I could make the right
move, not make it worse. I was alone.
Slowly, I grabbed and belly crawled across
the mud. Up on one knee. And stood.
In those years I learned respect, was granted
peace. In those years
I stopped being hungry
for what I couldn't have.
Eventually the canyon kicked me out
back to the city. My car could no longer
make the trek. I finished school. Acquired
health insurance. And some skills. Worked too much.
Got really really tired. Lost sight
of essence the way it lived in me
even when I was afraid. Twenty years later,
have not slipped, but have stopped. Am thinking.
About how to make it right. I listen
to those old music tapes. The older you get
you feel you can't make any wrong moves.
This thought proves to me
what I've lost.
Some people
do not want harm
to come to children,
any child;
they make great effort
to save and protect them.
Others don't care
and shoot them:
easy targets,
wide-eyed,
looking at you
before they die –
What a thrill
to get attention
before the end.
Life isn't worth
living, anyway.
BANG!
Swing high,
swing low,
emotions go
and go.
Medication taught
brain new levels
of serotonin well
and brain responds
with steadier stream
more constant calm
and even thinking.
Emotions now
assist function
not impede,
and life, life
takes reliable
turn with peace,
serenity and hope.
Driving down the quiet
neighborhood street,
dignified, refined
houses, lives –
all looks well.
In one house,
inside its walls,
between the studs,
hidden between,
is a body
tiny, secret –
mummified
it could not live,
I could not allow...
it simply could not.
The stigma
would have been
simply unbearable!
Oh oh, CaLokie, you suggested
making the November theme for
Four Feathers Press online edition
Dia De Los Muertos, isn't that...?
Not as bad as performing songs
from another culture like Paul
Simon did on Graceland, and,
now that I think about it, Me And
Julio Down By The Schoolyard.
Don't even mention Genesis!
Yikes, am I not allowed to order
my beloved bean and cheese
burrito anymore? And I just
bought dumplings at the 168
Market on Valley Boulevard
and nobody stopped me
except to say Shi Sheh.
You know why I got them,
my wife is from Dalian, then
adulted in Sanya. Is getting
married the ultimate C.A.?
Wait a minute, I'm writing
this poem in English. Talk
about colloquial acquisition....
here’s to the person who first found an oyster,
lifted it from the sea, examined
its spiny exoskeleton,
wedged a blade between
its hemispheres, inspected
its silver membrane,
slurped its body,
downed its liquor
who immediately
envisioned a jewel
despite its
barbed home
Press your ear on the child’s chest—
he’s five and in distress—his heart
fluttering like a wounded bird’s,
quivering in little pearl taps you’ll barely feel.
Hold his hand, just twigs chilled
and quaking, fingers in a ball so hard,
nails digging into flesh, so pull the little sticks
apart so you can place his palm in yours.
Look deeply in the child’s unblinking eyes,
so wide, orbs frozen, tears layered clear,
shimmering, stopped, unflowing,
the whites like ice on coal.
Lay your ear near his mouth and hear
his rasping breath stutter like a dying man’s,
uncurl his body from the kitchen floor
and hold him in your lap, hold him close, and warm.
Don’t talk to him, for he won’t hear.
Don’t raise him up, for he won’t rise.
His eyes are glued to his daddy on the rug,
the pool of red spreading dark and fast.
He’s starting school next week, this little boy,
and his dad took off the day to walk him there.
Uncurled, sitting in your lap, his head
tilted to his father, the child’s in distress.
Don’t speak to him, for he can’t hear.
Don’t stand him up, for he can’t stand.
His pencil legs quiver on yours, his silent lips
wet now because his tears unplugged themselves.
In the other corner, on the floor, the cop bawls
like a man condemned, his pistol on the chair,
his red face bobbing in his trembling hands,
as clueless now as when his holster freed his gun.
Tonight the screens will flash the dead man
in his uniform, and tell how he went deaf
in war, and how he saw his window break and summoned
help, and how all hell broke loose.
Originally published in the author’s book, Reading Tea Leaves After Trump (Golden Foothills Press: 2018).
His back’s a toothpick stack racked with pain.
His legs are stone on hospice sheets in
Barstow, where VA nurses rub liniment
on his arthritic limbs, days melting like wax
one into the other, his 90-year-old eyes
opalescent murk.
His convalescent legs slog in midnight dreams
through devastated streets, Sicilian sky
lit bloody by rockets pulping
trenches filled with men he knew.
His sharpshooter fingers and eagle eyes
bring down krauts in trees in the Ardennes,
and krauts covered in branches to deceive his mark,
but he’s the best.
His medals sleep in velvet trays in cedar drawers
now, room 356, because his shelf life tugs him
from pock-marked fields
to solitary rooms where walls
shimmy and run
like watercolors into smears
Originally published in a prior version in the author’s book, Rising, Falling, All of Us (Golden Foothills Press, 2014).
He doesn’t know I watch, or
maybe yes, he does. He carries rocks
in arms burnt browner by the sun, in arms
sinewed and knotted by muscles stretching and
pushing against granite edges of patio
pavers he lays in puzzles beyond my ken.
Sweat veneers his back like varnish freshly
stroked. His knees straddle opened earth, leather hands cupping
moistness as he digs deeper, smoothing loam, opening the
hole, plunging fingers into dirt made soft with rain. Face lowered,
droplets of his labor anoint the bed.
He hardly rests. He sips from plastic cups I bring to
him with eyes averted from the truth. His dark fingers brush
my wrist, a moment pardoned with a flush, and he
turns to toil that defines his being. Hour after
hour, in days long with longing, his brown arms lift
and move and hold and carry and embrace.
What does he think while his muscles groan, sweat
salting his lips and nipples as it trickles to
his pants? I lean against the wall, curtain falling
closed again, my knees useless.
Originally published in the author’s book, Rising, Falling, All of Us (Golden Foothills Press, 2014).
A fractal glyph
chipped off your
face
Formatted
erased
renamed
remade.
I envy your motion-captured smile,
your virtual sleep like a
Star Baby afloat
a blanket of
clouds
In your cottonhead digital cocoon
your swooning lips divebomb
pictures of
matchstick men
Struck a light consuming
the
venom loosed in
fields of the Nephilim
Hollow hills connect subliminal
refresher course for the jaded
superheated refractory hurt locker room talk
where the
post-human Cherry Bomb
ignites
The sleeping dwarf kings
penetrate the
final
witch
Situated as a shocking violet tongue
projected towards the
earbleed seats
At the swarm of dove-handed
potions
framed for
the Theater of
the
Absurd
Comic drafts swallowed with
quantum foam
Liberatory prosody awakens
in the
demon-eyed
quaff of
storm.
Bobbing up and
down on a
nub of
liquid love.
That's gotta hurt--engaged to be
harried by the
ghouls of
conformity.
Her black hat
conceals
a spiral
shell of
personality.
Her black sheets shimmer
with
metallic
blood.
Her breasts face west,
largely dots and slashes.
Her mouth is a
mirror of
horror's sluttish
feast.
Legs are clad in
slaughter
stalkings.
Way to
finish off the
whoremouth lunch,
wipe your
mouth with
her
murdered
lipreading.
Her appeal lies largely in
staying young
forever by
predating on
people with
real
thoughts
She burrows through
them like
a
gopher
But comes up
radically
short.
Gore-gorgeous,
she emerges
through the
rippled
proscenium
arch
Her majestic legs on
stun
A scramble of echoes
skitters through
fractal
dressing
rooms
On another shelf of data
sits a man
on a stool
made of
excreted
philosophy
He drove his
yellow
psychedelic
bus through the
silkscreen of
her
perversity.
Once in a lifetime:
help me dig these
meanings
Unearth your head from
the basic
bone
rich
matrix
I hated you
I loved you too.
By the time you read this,
time will
have
advanced exactly
this
Far.
It was the twilight of spring, and the Red Maple
leafed out. Walking up the old dirt drive, I counted
the dandelions growing in ruts. Some markers
leaned forward, and others tilted backward.
Most of the tombstones formed post-like shadows.
The names on the markers are those of the men
who died in the Revolutionary or Civil War.
Of course, I wanted to know about them,
but the only traces were by wild hogs
who rooted the tops of the graves.
Along the perimeter of the cemetery stood tall,
green pines, and in the middle of the graveyard,
the bees swarmed in a red maple. Three robins
landed beside the tree. They were not singing
as they strutted between graves.
Is it a sign of respect? I asked a gaunt mongrel.
He stopped near me and sniffed the pig’s footprint.
Ignoring me, he did his morning business
on a fallen gravestone. I wonder what made
the men defend the mysterious tree of equality.
As the dog circled the base of the maple, I thought
about soldiers doing ordinary things, fetching water,
or cutting wheat. I thought about them shaving
or bandaged in rough cloth. I thought about them
lifting their weapons and swallowing their fear.
Today, these inhabitants of forgotten graves share
their quarters with the creatures of the soil.
When a cold wind brings rain,
the mongrel follows the old road forming a U
while a flock of crows grumbles in the maple,
and the town talks about the summer crops.
the excavation site of Calle de Luna Subdivision 1990
Twilight on this job site,
Santa Ana winds cross the hillside
and, near the brush line, a dolphin bone.
Lifting it, I wave it in an arc,
and it eclipses the setting sun.
The autumn breeze brings weariness
and I dream-walk into the past.
As the quail cry out from
behind clumps of white sage,
I ride the surf into the dolphin’s memory
of rip tides, moon tides,
tides of the equinox.
In the distance, it sees
the sun set as white heat,
white light, and now
the rim of the horizon
marked star by star.
The cruise ship crawls eastward as the sea propels
itself one wave at a time. Lights of freighters glow
as they follow the trade route west. It seems easy
to see the shapeless green water
as a shadowy meadow with dark shapes.
Occasionally, a wave flashes its white cap
as it moves across this broad and deep channel.
While the ship cuts through waves,
I turn out the lights in my stateroom and step
onto my balcony with just enough space
between reality and me.
Below, a group of passengers walk towards the stern.
Some are retired. Others are newlyweds
or teenage lovers. It seems existence rises and falls
with the rhythm of the North Sea, whose purpose
is to flow with the current.
On my balcony, a steel rail separates the world
of iron from shadows, and I listen to a creature
of whispers, the wind. It slips away from the seascape
as the night clears. Then, the ship and sea become quiet
as if waiting for me to walk through the meadow
of white caps and into myself.
Fall Nature His mind shits on to October thoughts; dying, hibernation, death, sacrifice he watches the sky for the returning comet, misses t...
