Fishing

Hung up strung up slung up

 a fish white belly on sand

with gills the color of sliced beets

and skin that shone like a beaded purse

 we hook him

like catching a comet in a gunny sack

not to mention what we did to the worm.

synapse

I see light in the distance.

I have voice if I stop writing  me and start writing  thee.

Sleeping in

I’m not running for my life

but some people are tonight

as I slide into a warm coverlet

and listen to the sirens on Regal
Avenue.

Today the Pope said something kind of Popeish and asked all parishes and churches to take in some refugees from Syria and I felt a flash of love for him, and I  thought about all those people when I lay down. The big man with the catholic hat said something that made me feel better, as if we could care for each other. Thanks Pope, I needed that.

Ba DA Bing

I got nothin’

Gonna go down in flames tonight

standing with my ass hangin’ out

thinkin’ I got some hot

Whoa

Danger

We all walk the edge sometimes.

That’s the way it is if you want to see the river below.

Solitude

I like it when I don’ t have to say a word to anyone for hours at a time.

it suits my nature and pleases my soul.

and then I might babble like a brook endlessly

laughing out loud

Spice in the rice is nice.

How’s the work going?

I’m very close to forty thousand words, which could be hallway through, if I only knew what halfway was.

It is enjoyable work, what I am doing right now with these characters and their outlandish symptoms of humanity, even the worst of them. It’s worth it, and I begin to love them, just because they are still walking their roads. A few of those roads I would rather be dead than have to walk, but they do it and come back to where it all started as if to try again.

They perplex me, and I have to wait until it becomes clear that they have a reason for everything they do, and that reason makes perfect sense.

Okay. good night, y’all.

Rain

At first I thought it wouldn’t even be enough to cut through the dust

and then it did

and kept to cooling leaves and bark. Squirrels had a drink, on the house. They had been waiting a really long time, after all. And then,

the sweetness broke through the web of hardened smoke

and it was sucked into a sweeter vortex,

vacuumed like a spider into the Hoover

down down and down again into the magma furnace,

and blasted to

a drop of water

and escaped as steam.

That’s a bit of drama for ya.

In a garment of leaves

The truest breath came waxy bright with tears

and all that could be known

resounded in the soft folds

of baby bok choy

curled

Whatever

some days unravel me

tired as I can be

and others stitch me up

like a mended pillow.