is. as
days are not
known in the why—as
what I do, it seems
an excuse for
nothing. as
i watch this is,
the days roll on end;
which seems as
all the do—I have.
enjoys of thanksgiving
the relationship with Father was a TV screen
he would settle upstairs during the 1st
and I would be in a dug-out of a basement
our eyes glued on Gibson’s 9th who hobbled out as an old man.
I would yell enough for the roof to hear,
he is going to knock it out
but at the age of thirteen it had no merit in baseball. no stats. no pressure. no mediocrity.
just a teenage heart yet to be spoiled.
that was the best as it was
our two highlight reel
a high five as I came upstairs
and a hug
this moment we would play
father to the step-son
for twenty years over thanksgiving.
A day finding Basho
the river’s slide
where the leaves fall,
a current of the mountain
the swift bed
dries up quickly
without the rain.
.
Yellow leaves on a Dodge pickup
Are brushed away by hand,
blue paint reveals skin
as a sky of a neon dusk.
The chips off the fender are from last winter
when the hail was especially
strong, but they were forgotten
under the blanket of yellow,
hanging on to the shoulders
like a lost cloud on a mountain.
Missing it, after a pleasant exchange
A Red balloon knotted to a wrist
Fobbles the exhaustive air.
It excites fingers. Unties
The one loose end and ends
with less in means to bat around.
The tiniest accidents happen.
Stone feet jump and a hand clenches
A throat full of molecules.
One attempt to pull it
Back down. There it is—freedom.
Red on Blue.
Watched all the while, until
The sky reminds you,
What was never there for long.
Yourday,
yellow sun that lost the sky
we play our drums to help your way
golden sun—a modern bell,
as tinker fairy in crease in ocean hills
oh noble sun that fell to weeds
is such a little sun
when we accumulate the surest seed
turn red with fume in oldest age;
a least expected state when eons fade
so draw goodbye past the moon
and the outer people with simple waves
Sunday. we left long ago
Yourday,
oldest sun. (left long ago)
day 9
Ducts betrothed to water’s flow
Tear up not the fragrant song
Induced by those headsprings’
As tumbled down the mountain.
The moss is with the stone;
The edge to have fallen far
Below the sight of recovery.
Fragment of rock in churn.
Dip the ladle in every well-
spring that tastes like the day
Which cannot be removed from
The source—a river’s tip to end.
Come wander in the delta;
Find a foot in the ocean song
As boulders whirl to sand
And life as old, begins again.
or how a man is a be.
What soldiers are. the minutemen
she waved. and loved
just about. anything
could be said. saying today
and back
whipped. by a Pistol?
his dog is a sailor
barking. on
the heels of the ocean
break. on the sand
though it cannot be seen
so far.
out
is a minute.
high divide
On the right, sits a megaplex of a grocer selling Whole
Foods to the last of the urban outliers. Directly sided
left of the intersection stands a single scarecrow in
a field ripe with harvest.
A sell of toiletries is going on. Buy two
get one free.
Dual hands are needed to carry white muffins.
And the air moves this time of year.
The people shiver with their white cotton.
And through the cuffs, tufts of hay or straw trickle
from a stuffed man.
One car whizzes by the farm at backroad speeds.
The slight—moves the doppelgänger
to an angle where the ground is almost reachable.
He can see in the store during the fall.
It is getting warmer.
The air is on. Pumpkins are being sold.
The scarecrow has laid his own.
He gestures to the people. His glove is off.
And through the cuffs, tufts of hay or straw trickle
from a stuffed man.
The sun beats down the sliver in a road.
The face of the straw man is the same as last season.
A smile lines his face.
He looks at the people exiting the store.
I think he may be smirking.
But I never asked him on the country road.
on falling
the stars do not appear like in my father’s eyes
except the Great Bear who leads to Polaris
an impossible direction where I forgot spiritualism;
And the planets, their circles escape knowledge
unless on chance it is Venus
whose odds are pretty good to me.
I search for her in the spectacles of father
but his mystery wanders as contentment.
when I spoke to my father about disappearances
he was already on a vintage bed
similar to an infant. he explained the stars
were even more numerous before he saw them;
then they settled here as they tired
of the empty space; it is difficult to overlook
where everyone shines like cities.
his bright face closed then,
and it was true—the story of stars falling.
