buzz stain

a shaking hand
with another
and that is
what is called is a
motion
from the upper outer synapses
a foible kingly gesture
his 5 best men
erect
standing and reaching awkwardly
headward is
and is five of them

feeling uncomfortable that is graduating with honors
honorable and the laziest sense
drenched in head from toe
to my own birth
and that is
what is
whatever it is
that is

justwrite 30 september

there's a kind of quiet
riding out the storm surge
urging rainbows from creek beds
wandering instead into wet grass
this too will be classified
this rain is not as wet as last week's
wait until the lady on the corner
has her say/ from her porch
torching up the hotline
feeling fine except for the troubles
bubbling up unshaved stubble
irritating/ saving no nations
irrigation so out of touch
a crutch for lazy lettering
water flying right by
touching no dry spells
yelling out tomorrow's menu
blue Ls and red Hs spelling nothing
try the hail it's really something
plumping the tires for another go
pillow talk with rocks in my mouth
this i promise you
there will be no compromise
there will be no wrong
only the thunder can stay
gold and aching for release
depth charts disheartened by age
there are no chances from this angle
down from the top of the/ chop of the tree
all the little pork
all the sweetened toes
waiting for the sky to slow
the moon flooded last night/
maybe again
maybe it will pour out
south america
oranges and greens
mountains of culture, vultures
tongues thick with poetry
a sky that answers

justwrite 29 september

an alabaster breakfast
and an earthquake on fire
mired in hollandaise sauce
wondering what the ingredients cost
i will go with you to live in the zoo
we will feed our guests bananas
let us laugh peanuttily with wide teeth
the truth is my jaw is still numb
there are apples too crunchy today
the rusty saw the curtain call
snowflakes stalling from a half-season away
set out to play on a side porch
only the company shines their shoes
spit and polish the hobknobble
hoboken misspoken boot straps
pull me up by my pigtails
where have all the pigtails gone
long drawn-out with curlicue marvel
i have closed the windows now
ready for my close-up
last night i dreamed of ice cream
mentioned this afternoon suddenly
why do they call it tennis
would you reach out in defense of motion
how yellow are your pages
ages too crowded by eights
fated dates resorted to straights
flushing gibraltar, tops to the wall
let me call again
i will disguise your stovepipe
bake your face into a cream pie
there is only one you here
yes i'm talking too
on and on a train leaves the station/
tunes out

Scary places

Scary places…

I remember The Path and all.

And all of us who had to walk through it. “The Path” was actually the small area- probably only a hundred feet or so wide- of trees and such-

Probably the edge of St.Matthias’ property-

That we had to cross between the edge of schoolyard and the end of a neighborhood street.

I remember stepping onto its muddy banks or dried clay/sediment with thre tree roots making sort of ‘steps’ as we stepped onto/into the path area.

I don’t think it was just he incident with the wild dogs that made/makes it scary- I think, really, is that you were leaving your freedom behind-

You were leaving the neighborhood streets and resigning yourself to another WORLD for the day, and boy did I hate it sometimes.

Once I was there, I think I had fun most times, but I also tried not to go- in first grade once, I refused to finish going through the path to school.

I stopped at the edge of it, and my sister Amy had to get her 5^th grade teacher Ms. Bigford to come and talk to me. I don’t know how she got me to cross the school yard and come into the building- but she did. Butat that’s what made the Path so scary- it was the threshold to a world like Scout’s- where I felt repressed.

chik chak

the chicken industry is changing
and so am i
headlorn-factbased-cringable
in sweatpants and marginal toothgrins
swabbing up their own soup
staining their well-worn shoes
their own soup
coagulating
and metastasizing
and changing
tens and tens and tens of them
stacked up
in beams
crowing over the church
the church parking lot
singing songs
their songs
that care about their wellborn shoes
and their freeworn feet
and their liberty
with several syllables
as yet to be calculating
strutting out
of unstruttable mouthes
just like georgia in spring
the smell of delorn georgia when the birds come out

justwrite 28 september

i'm going for a run
when i come back
or when i don't
keep track of the steps
i might have taken
you might have mistaken
there are duets
there are do nots
there are true spots of madness
filtering through the clouds
you're allowed to say goodbye
you're welcome to say thank you
anyway
everybody ought to share manners
of speaking sneaking in extra words
have you heard the absurd rumors
i'm going out to investigate
to domesticate the wild
to throw childlike excuses
into the maw the wishing well
if only i had longer legs
if only my knees bent backward
then i'd be getting somewhere
then i'd call your number
serve up a made-to-order last-resorter
spending the vacation on trial
hoping to spend frequent miles
flying home to alaska
from home in nebraska
where the names have been changed
vowels rearranged
there is a stage for you
to air your laundry
my infantile quandaries
why do you want
what do i haunt with
hunting out darkcircle eyes
tripping over arrangements
flowers blooming at all hours
on the metro at the station
the hesitation of sneakers into dew
we will find our soles
chase our laces tighter
our tea will be sweetened
the night will wait longer
i will probably return
don't even think/ forget i said

justwrite 27 september

don't wait until they read the story
savor the velveteen cantaloupe,
the raspberry intrigue
let your fingers linger in the full-up fruitcup
the tangible smells, the deep twists
wrists and elbows submerged
when they read it maybe they'll see
but for now
glow it beside your bed
flashes of constant lightning bugs
free to go free from lids
but resting delicious beside you
between your hands
rising in the warm, the sun
doubled up, kneaded down
a cotton draping stopping escaping moisture
no cloister for this loaf
let them eat toast
and toast again the friends extending
the reach out and touch doubledutch
these words in the suitcase, are the suitcase,
are the ticket
sticking themselves in their own pockets
admiring themselves in their own lockets
their ticking tockets and lightbright sockets
these words are the mashed
and the butter sputtering
potatoes and homemade
these images erase grimaces
from chalkboard porcupines
these letters give unfettered
protection from spaghetti
misdirection: never again
there are circuses within rings here
no one wants a commitment
everyone wants a taste
stick fingers in the trash for yesterday
surmise a more attractive
somewhen else/ look for it on the shelf
the troopers need no starship
the rain needs no stream
your lips will be tired without these
languid lines
green vines prying open lying and forcing truth
sticking out a middle toe
wondering where the rest could go
stowing no color/ wheeling on