Winter Time 


The shortest day, mercifully so, lessening light

Astronomically the one rule calculable, luminosity.

Dry canals flicker bark-pitch under sky blanketed grey.

New boots, half price at the border, shorten my step

Planted, enmired, mud-suctioned to hay and rock.

It’s 15:22 though the sky cares less for numbers than I.

Clouds shake their breath off with wispy shoulder

Disregarding walkers below, lost in foreign shades,

We the burdened, the calamitous, the retuned notes

Cast eyes to a dimming horizon slunk atop dead branches.

It’s winter, her solstice slowing time at the axis,

And happily so, no rush, no filter, just stragglers in exile

For a time, while the light slants low, configuring us

Country-free, wanderers, timed projections sur les Pyrenees.

At the Corner: Ten for Today

I don’t know why I bite. I practice keeping my distance, detaching from all the crap around me, only to self-sabotage in weaker moments. Quixotic behavior, fighting windmills, I collapse, fall into the delusion that cyberspace is real, people on Facebook are real. They are not. They are as solitary as I am, poking at keys to create effect. There are no people in cyberspace, just ones and zeros. I know this, and yet…
 
Going out to dinner with my housemates, dad and partner, that is real. Though the restaurant was too noisy to facilitate conversation, we know what we want to say–and the food is always good there at our corner joint called, “The Corner.” Upon seating, the waiter, who knows us by name, delivered a cellophane wrapped wine glass we left there a month before. They knew it was ours, and the bartender brought it to our table upon seeing us. Even though we have never sat at the bar, the guy recognized us for our frequent patronage.
 
That’s real life–in the flesh.
 
To feel the pulse of America and predict the outcome of this upcoming election, I need to get out of cyberspace, off my computer, and walk among real breathing human beings, who can look me in the eye and tell me who they are and what they want. Only posers–personas–hide on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and all the other social media sites created for production, the creation of false spaces, rooms, and people who perform pieces of their lives, oh so convincingly.

 

Image: around the corner

Level and Plumb

  

When the leaves blow

and coffee spills, cup atilt,

slosh goggle floored, splayed 

legs out wide like a downed 

ballerina, stunningly embarrassed, 

pictures hang askew, traffic piles

up, coincidental clash meetings

arise, and all goes awry, topsy

spinning turvy, electrified.
 

But if you plant your feet firmly,

tilt your head just so, right the

angle (forget the level and the 

plumb), bend to slanting, twist 

around dead center, steady and

strong, new perspective threatens

comfort yet tickles a notion clear–

if you let the turning in–

that all you held confirmed,

earth bound solid, statically 

removed, churns, burns and grinds

a new plateau, status quo evenly

spread, awaiting dissipation and 

drip-lye transformation. 

Change. 

Shucking Seeds

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Flustered, mind agape, silently wide-eyed,

I know not what sits behind her eyes.

She, a squirrel up a date palm, looking for acorns,

and I, a logical storm looking for a landing, apace,

we dance the squares of the place, tiled and tidy,

a touch of mildewed madness escaping. We spin.

She hides, a cushion pin stuck in the grimy wall.

Magenta stew toppled around her meaty face, her,

I stare across the room at only silhouette;

flat ribbon plastic words float to her

cordon her off like a crime scene

in the corner, dark, smoldering

punk in a steamy seamless-ness,

drunken porridge, we two–a corruption,

an oil leak of foul forethought.

She takes me home–her home–

a wondrous oak tree, reaching

branching, bleeding out the red roots.

We shuck seeds, plant acorns, see what grows.

Stewing Storm

image

I stew, seethe and sorrow. I am a woman.
I love.

There is a yearning. It penetrates the wall of silenced fear.
A slow ache, amorphous yet round all at once.
Closed circle.

I am broken. I was never really fixed.
It’s just that I feel the lack of a whole now.
I age.

No longer I bear the one way pouring.
What goes out must have a coming in.
I am sere.

My mind teases out strands of sense.
They float above my pavement feet.
I waver.

It is time to be honest, let it seep in.
Some people must die and go home.
To free me.