the man who walks too slow
until I see the bucket hat bobbing
a tick behind,
an elder, a mother or
client. Or friend?
Are we still in the early phase
of friends? I was alive
when my parents lost theirs
and they were not young
when I was born.
I am, finally, just like my mother.
Coffee carries water and I don't eat
until noon. We wear our bangs the
same, thinned and fanned out like
a brown parasol. Just an egg, please.
Toast, sure. The raspberry jam. The
sunny spot, I click red nails to key-
board, I care enough but very little.
I flick the curl from my eye, I wear
glasses. When I think about death,
I don't fear my own. It's others; I don't
want to miss you. I want to be a family
with long summers and warm mornings
the house plants growing, the evenings
full of hot winds. When I think of
my life, I think of my mother, would
she smile knowing how much and
how little I care? How changed I am,
and yet, the same, the same, as every
iteration of us, every evolution surely,
graciously became. Mama says we
all have the same eyes, she says sisters
are like leaves on a tree.
a consequence
of the full cratered moon
a wolf in the residential
zone of vortexes
crystals gusts
from the red rock basin
raise the lantern
dusk as ritual
self actualization of light
as coyote giggles
echo small balls
of predatory mindfulness
ricochets implications
of indigeneity
the medicine woman
statues canyons names
layered with sedimentary
q’s l’s h’s
geology of wellness
reveals a desert
qualish way we prance
through vulnerability
with our little hats
rest our tired hands
on opuntia cacti
rust our tired pants
on blood colored dirt
i wrote a poem when i was 7
about everything i loved
dotted computer glyph
i called it:
The Morning Star
Is A Treasure
Of Your Own Imagination
so certain,
of everything i loved,
my cat Bo Bo, sweet rice crackers
wrapped in seaweed, the curling poster
of children pushing a wagon sized tomato
on the wall
belonging to myself,
the poem
the place
cozy snail's shell adorned
with billions of pin holes,
glow in the dark green
flooding the edge's
edge
curl up in an anti thought let it hum you
sleepless, dreaming of a parsley farm
blood like a message, real deal
face upside down in the mirror
have you ever actually known?
when i couldn't think about soft looks
without crying, connection ache
for sun, for baby animals, for the imprint of food
you set before me, powerless pleasure,
steam in the shower,
herbs of the earth
feeling this love as much as
recalling not feeling
this love,
body of ocean,
and lightening
now practice reaching
across yourself
where would i be without florida at
a houston’s in fort lauderdale twisting
heads off spiny
lobsters discovering my sexuality
in people
magazines asking questions
are flamingos
real is swimming in a sunshower
are nightfuls of crocodile
leather iguanas on red tile
it’s alligators
stupid iguanas ride elevators
in the sawgrass
mills mall half price tuesdays
half pepperoni at the rainforest
cafe when i grow up
i’ll have a wet bed
covered in bananas
lost at the flea market
in a bedazzled sea of black
dungarees riding the go karts
in publix grabbing every coupon
taking the 3 hour tour
getting lost in tv land
with a half gallon of breyer’s
a sunburn that peels pink
as coconut scent
soap in the toilet
of a jai alai gambling
facility it's easy
as a cupped hand
empty as a pelican’s bill
the memory
that begs
words now
is my brother
in the swimming
pool many pools
many summers
we had some
fascination with
the circus so i
was the leader
or ringmaster,
nameless and
he was the star
fashioned a
title for himself :
Baby Jelly to
ring of things
soft and young
and sweet i'll
let the recall
sit there, before
it puckered with
power and time
i can keep
it in the water,
choreo for jumps
and dives we
had to add
the drama with
imagination since
nothing close to
impressive was
materializing but
we stuck it
out and i
insisted we
practice repeatedly
in case someone
wanted to watch
our sibling show
from the edge
maybe dangle ankles
and applaud for
our sweet dance
that we chose
to make
Scanner light, exit through the weird door, scanner groan, go on home.
Useful am I, scanner so bright, an image to see whenever you like.
I am become bus person.
I am not the most successful person.
Scanner sing, imaging.
Nighthawks, Chianti and the moon
keep me and my mother company
settled rigidly side by side
books brought but unread
praying for companionship
sharing a plate of cut fruit
laid out on the brick patio
Guilt as a goddess lounges near
wringing both her hands
she refills our glasses
red and ceremonious, quaffed
we swoop in and out
admiration and bafflement
isolated in our search to love the other
between us a heavy vase bears a white lily
the shadows move as they always do