An Observation

hearing Greg talk about God
and his love flowing through us all the time
and how I should be a faithful bride
and reject the conventional wisdom of Religion
will always make me sob like a widow
at 3 in the morning

Writing Exercise 3

Word: Punctilious

for joseph:

today
on the driveway and street
you and i
adoptive little brother
created a mural with pastel chalk
of boxy robots, breastless cheerleaders,
gillless mackerel, and noseless heroes

the laws of physics ignored
shapes were meaningless
and fingers were dusty
as you and i
my summer friend
sniped womp rats on a paved Tatooine

The Garden [V2]

a warm morning
she walks the cold dew of the grass to the garden
with bare calloused soles

she rests on her knees at the edge of the bed
bare hands working slowly
blending earth and flesh
a woman as a mother

with wisdom of depth her
pained fingers bury the bulb of an iris
into the warm soil
with wisdom she will wait
for a birth that is sure to come

careful fingers pack the soil

her wrists are moist and black
as the sun dips west
knees groaning as she
stands to feel a soft whisper from the east
with closed eyes her fingers move
like boughs
to her bare belly

Writing Exercise 2

for emilee


Word: Nutmeg

walking in the moon shadow of the old sawdust mill
where our grandfathers all worked for years
you let your cigarette hit the glossy pavement
and tell me with infant eyes
with catholic eyes
that you need India
where you have read that the air smells like spice

The Garden [V1]

a warm morning
she walks into the garden with bare feet and hands
cold dew on the grass
soft clumps of dirt clinging to her toughened soles

she rests on her knees at the edge of the bed
hands working slowly
blending earth and flesh
a woman as a mother

strong lucid fingers pushing bulbs of an iris
deep into the soil
with a wisdom of depth
and birth that is sure to come

soft careful fingers pack the soil

her wrists and forearms are moist and
black as the sun dips west
her calloused knees are worn
she stands to feel a soft whisper from the east
closing her eyes her fingers move
like boughs
to her belly

Writing Exercise 1

Word: Morae

in a room alive with electronic whispers
and nervous ticks
i gaze out my window

eyes unfocused like Loveless
hands moving with Baoding
mind moving like Mangum

in an instant i feel God
and in an instant it is gone

Roadside Romantic [V4]

the road to the reservation
is pockmarked with forgotten relics
lost to the avaricious fingers of time

there is a rusted out car older than me
the way your father is older than you
a car that once had nicotine stained hands on the wheel
and warm impressions on the seat
like a glowing ember resting in the snow
now it lies dormant and alone in a field of weeds and grass
with a for sale sign perpetually in its windshield

there is a small withering stream surviving deep within
the gorge below a wooden bridge
the walls of the canyon are far wider than the stream itself
an echo from a more powerful time when water
was the most dominant force on earth
but the stream will never disappear
only change direction
depth and disposition

an abandoned gas station on the side of the road
with chipping paint and a roof collapsed by a fallen tree
the windows are covered by cheap rotting plywood that you
could find propped up against any dumpster
written on the facade with black spray paint
temporarily closed
in lazy looping words like you would find
in a child's handwriting book

there is a fire hydrant hidden in the tangled brush
with no building to become a blaze for miles
no destruction to give it life
further down the road is a stoplight hanging from tethers
more noose than tightrope
and the burning color of purpose has long since left

the looming pines that line the path to the reservation
act as a guide and a shepherd for these forgotten relics
ushering them into the memory of a
roadside romantic