The trump-er grown loud in palsied anger
defeaned himself to the mad deranger
One penless poet in an inkwell stared
down letter-less pages of his dreams bared
The world’s gone bonkers at last I tell you
rightside up is sideways blowing up truth
When growing rich means exploding idols
and viscous real estate steals upturn skulls
Time then once and for all to scrap the deal
that fear-stuffed progress regressives pig squeal.
When the blue of sky and sea meet on the sun’s canvas, the world’s ills dissipate like wave vapor, crashed, floated and sprayed, melding with motion, recycling life for us who pass through.
Buffoonery and lies flee then, preferring cyber print to airy flights and icy dives in the Earth’s teal liquid split from firmament in places and times like these: the road peeled back revealing popped village pockets like blisters.
Here, when the blues of stinging seas sob seabird song, throngs of the foolish schools of the unschooled turn to the sun, seeking to bleach wrongs white or pure golden.
No trace, no nothing’s wrong here, the luscious hues just right for jog by smiles and sweet sweaty necks peeking through white pressed cotton tees tucked in creased linen tennis shorts.
A former Welsh fortress by the ocean free stands no longer firm, gone now but for those unaffected running on, keeping the tepid in and the cracked walled out, improbable as a teapot set sail on a vapid cup of tea.
Cardiff by the Sea breezes by me now and blushes me bright with springy lies of lucky losers and terrible saints, infamy tamed palatably blue, the color of infinity.
Windows open the flies get in and buzz around occupant ears
and the neighbors see if anyone’s home to borrow a few eggs.
Prying eyes into unshuttered houses make movement cribbed
self-consciously checking on words, their tone and expression
so no one calls the cops when the screaming sounds so loud
that anxious stares cannot bear the cruel curiosity any longer.
Unlocked doors welcome strangers in along with friendly foes
to sit in the kitchen nook to wait for cold beer and sandwiches,
served in feigned welcome smiles wary of wrong impressions.
When doors swing wide the wind bellows loudly, wild howling
that outsiders mistake for babies neglected and other abuses
a lure for authorities of watchful interrogations lying in waiting.
An open house with glass walls like an atrium of family fronds
is a sociological study of disordered habits of broken subjects
where gourds are lasered open with surgical knives illumined
reflecting wide-eyed grimaced faces of fun house mirror halls
that release shrieks of wailing laughter hysterically unleashed
while witnesses nod in knowing affirmation of suspicious spin.
Confessional containers confine the inhabitants in cool cages
bars silvan with tales and typecasts for the people’s comfort,
the rack to rest their hats on in assurances wide in ever after.
“We always knew she was untrustworthy, her nose in the air,
and look at her children’s friends with the pierced nose rings.”
To lay bare what can be seen is like carelessly losing a home.
Please enjoy Stacy Pendergrast reading “Weeding.”
She is a wingless wren
a bitty beak a half lid
slow-eyed sunk in
dreaming of flight
and plans of cities wide
and deep for her pain
losing miles of time sweet
she is dove of sighs
coos left for the unloved
she is an electric beam
of magnetic woe laid
before her feet and song
one shared in no one
my little song bird mute
limps to nesty retreat
dark hollow of a tree
gleamy eyes trickle
light fogged from within
a birdless fright of whim
a skittering feather foot
scamper shot running
a wrong winged one
she is a grounded wren.