write a (sloppy, half-formed if need be) poem every day (or so) during June 2009

Ode to the open sky of water

Parasol shaped drops
form between two and five millimeters
caught in a war
of convective processes.

We are what we are doing
huddled under building overhang
umbrella shields at ready
battle weary.

Your epode is too long in coming.
With faces like tears, we laugh.

To pick up the pigeon forge, unwieldy tools, flight despairs. Still. Some toil. Take the quiz. Over the valley at the time of the banks; where one walks around the waterfall. We have wings now, forged. Skills of pigeons. Left toiling. Running amok with words, and birds call to the tune of a well oiled clock. Give a little whistle. These were animatronic mondays. Inside a giant dome she claimed to be real. Where the path led, flight of dumplin. When you have mine, give me three minutes, and I’ll send them right back. Places where the hell burnt through. Such a beautiful mess, and oh, what a voice.

with the same wording and intent, is here

All are welcome to join. You know how much I like company!

108 is the kind of heat
That depresses, as if
God intended to iron
Us free of our sins or
We’ve slipped into
Hell without noticing.
The saddest thing I
Know is determined
Cheer disallowing
How bad it is inside
And out, the scorched
Frozen conversations.
It all leads back to
The pine-paneled
Room where you
Told her you didn’t
Want to be ignored
And she didn’t reply
And you still don’t
Know, eight years on,
If she’s noticed you’re
Gone.

Even if the design was
Inefficient and you cough-
Choked on dust and the
Smell of decay every time
You entered, even if you
Were fully insured and the
Horses were spared, the
Barn that you raised from
Bare dirt has burnt down.
New spectacular view of
The moon notwithstanding,
There was structure here
That at one time protected
An earlier version of you.
Not to mourn it is churlish,
Ungrateful and moreover
Leaves you in danger of
Building the same barn a
Second time. Stand, then,
Your tears mixed with anger
And smoke, guilt and loss;
Find on this dishallowed
Ground one strong board,
Unbent nail for the journey
Ahead, tuck into your pocket
Late morning sun through
Hand cut windows on the
Third best day of your life.
Only then, move on, unhaunted.

Where we went into hiding, they were busy replastering the wall. He wasn’t a particularly attractive baby, but his self-sufficiency made him quite alluring. Is it possible to dream without the full unawareness of sleep? Inbetween alarms call. The bass so loud it set off the car alarms; he drove around the neighborhood twice. Finding it time to sit down, again. Now being the hour for roses smelling. Things that happened in 1959. To sum it all up briefly.

I’m in for July, too. July 9th will be 100 poems in 100 days, so how can I stop now? Besides, this is as much a part of my life as eating, showers and getting googly-eyed over my honey.

When I die, judge me precisely,
No excursions to promising youth
Or mellow middle age. If I die a
Bitter old bitch, say so. Discuss
My confusion with single and
Double quotation marks, my
Unrelenting stand on toilet roll
Hanging, the way I shrouded
Cruel criticism in humor, excused
Myself from social niceties with a
Charm equal parts innocent glee and
Crass manipulation. Mention I loved
You; I do, all of you and each part of
Each. Let that be benediction without
Blanket pardon. If I fear not your
Leaving me now, in person or affections,
How much less will my freed and spent soul
Hinder itself with such spineless concern?

Subtle as loneliness slipping
Into the seat beside you in the
Dark theater, placing its cold
Delicate fingers into your
Unturned palm, commiseration
Thick in its shadow-rich voice
As those around you are lost
To the blustering light. Thin
Reminder, placeholder of
Sorrows you’ve always been
Almost ready to heal; Not
Tonight, nothing needs repair
Under its obliterating bandage.

Surprise thumb print. Taking the time to slow down. Forgot how much she liked it. Needing to find a new way of being in the world. Creatures that fly over us while we sleep. Don’t think about that.

Considering adding some lines written in blue. Things that were glued in after the fact. Forbidden tools she did not yet know how to use. Do you remember the first time you shucked corn?

How neurotic we can be about picking off the last silky strands. Taking the time to slow down. The way the magazine flapped in the wind. Finally silence, minus a dropped tambourine in the street. What is tied to this. She had been working all day.

Behind her the dog sat in the shade of the doorway, panting. This was summer, etched on her thumb. In the morning they would make cornbread with the leftovers.