wordweeds

One always dies too soon or too late. And yet, life is there, finished: the line is drawn, and it must all be added up. You are nothing other than your life.
— Jean-Paul Sartre

We outgrow the soil
from which we grew
our early fame and infamy,
seeds flung by storms
into new, forgotten grounds.
Or, we compost our youth.
George Sand’s sturdy suits,
love affairs, tobacco smoke
for menopausal altruism.
Malcolm X’s white devils
for brotherly love’s final gun.
Mark Twain’s naive Finn and Jim
for the dark Mysterious Stranger.
Ram Dass’ Harvard spin with LSD
for Now’s inner God of Stroke.
My father’s four kids—cut losses—
for a spirit world pardon of a line
of broken boys-turned-our-fathers.
My early LDS One True Church
for many truths, for Natural Mind.
For what blooms will you be known
after your long, weedy life?
Change the metaphor, Writer, Fisher,
hope your readers understand
your denouement and fall with you,
uncaught by the unknotted net.

2019

The sky starts as flakes, lands wet.
A juniper drops glassy beads, one by one.

The Frigidaire’s high whine goes dead.
Silence brings the flat white sky inside.

A cat crunches kibble in my closet head.
A black dog stares out my window eye.

Snow buries words within my chest.
I don’t look for a shovel or sun.

2019

Flakes land softly like the damp cloth
of a death midwife
cooling a dying woman’s brow

where little heat remains
sweet with the scent of medicinal sweat
clammy and velvet new hair.

Snow hands wring out silence
deep inside the cold, a clarity
so clear we wrongly call it light.

2019

Smart speakers offer manual options for volume
for people like you whose giggle, talking ridiculously
to plastic, quickly turns to awe and bossiness.
Hey, Google, play “River” by Leon Bridges.

Hey, Google, 75% volume. Hands free, music makes
a soundtrack for cooking, cutting onions.
Hey, Google, 100% volume. Constant visual overlay
these days. Memory’s relentless mind screens couple

with memories of small screens, fingers scroll songs,
click video versions: a black father’s blood-spattered
white t-shirt, his baby crying, calmed on his chest, tiny
red-wet fingers, Black people in white, standing in water,

not the literal river you misremember: they sing in rain
enhanced by a hose, join the onion on the cutting board.
This isn’t video. Your husband is out buying avocados
and blue chips. The song story thunders through you just

below a rolling memory of the morning he held you up
on your feet, thighs and knees giving out with father grief,
beneath your cry, are you going to leave me, and the song
came on spontaneously, the river song, the song

now always a stream in the dark of your son’s room,
smelling of unwashed clothes and an old dog,
the room, looking into the kitchen, where he, your love,
sat with you on a messy low mattress, untangled

antique knots of abandonment, your face a river.
You say you are always waiting for what you deserve,
that being left is what you will get for what you gave
and have been given, your narrative inheritance.

He asks, can’t we rewrite that end? I want to, you say.
Songs shuffle. Onions gleam. The kitchen glows yellow
with the promise of a new mythology, a river flowing
without water, without gravity, without a final sea.

Here’s Leon Bridges’ song, River

Give me your danger
Your simple eye and word
So I may have the courage
To write the beautiful bore
The helpless mother-terror
Each day of my slow burn.

2019

All fires end somehow.
Rain and shovels sink in
Or snow snuffs them out
Like a god, before the town
Wakes, sleeping with its
Yellowed photos stashed
In countless car trunks.

2019

I sweep tufts of hair
From my bedroom bamboo floor
Where dogs aren’t allowed.

Two couch cushions chewed.
What means more? Dog or couch?
Turn cushions. Hide holes.

2019

greyish birds flicker
in the hearts of still piñon
winter’s SA nodes

#1
Driven by indefinite predators, you run
through the multistoried city puzzled together
like a colossal le Corbusier parking garage, leap
knotted streets threaded through with gurgling
orchestrated streams. Traffic fog stands
in pillars of light and shadow like fluctuating
headlights cutting through an ancient forest,
casting dirty Jacob’s Ladders, beaming
from low hanging firmaments of grey concrete.
Unable to escape, peer off the edge
of architectural monstrosity, this last Wonder,
witness a vista of Trump Tower-sized cubes
of refuse baled together with twists of iron twine,
receding into the stinking distance, the horizon
a rusted Donald Judd sculpture of postindustry.

#2
Walking a hotel hallway without hurry,
your small herd of humans knows the earth change
not the way wild animals do, limbic, in bones
before brains, but—with nowhere to run
on earth from earth’s gorgeous shockwave—
by the way a giant new update of gravity
gently sucks you into slumped piles of yourselves,
the unknown babe in your arms at once slack faced,
like you, full of useless bones and bright-eyed
with collapse, the surprise of benign paralysis,
the premonition of a future anthropologist,
evolved android drawing you piece by piece,
scattered as you will be throughout the others,
taking notes on your precise whereabouts
when it all went down, a diagram of destruction.

Wax, falling moon
Nicotine grin
Inhaling me west

2 October 2019

A throng of poets
Is better
Church than church.

2019

Sorrow
stands
up

Untangles
the
cold
river

Imitates
a
cairn

Imitating
me

2019

Tethered to the puppet
strings of two dogs
arms and legs tugged
by scents I cannot sense
I surrender to nose joys
made not for me
but for these dogs now bowls
for love my grown boys cannot hold.
I let my masters linger hungrily
sniffing shadows
while I pause over here
on the dark road looking up
waiting to move on.

2019

august and july
mosquitos held me
hostage from the milky way
hatted netted hurried
absent starlight
impossible to feel small
enough to write

2019