Here we Go Again
Most years January doesn’t have to do much—its reputation’s enough, every day
in the 30s, rain with 20 mile wind from whatever direction you’re walking;
sometimes the rain polymers branches, cars and streets in cold hard transparency,
soaked soil and juggernaut wind bringing down trees and lines, increasing the darkness
that should be diminishing: the suns been up for hours but January wont let it out,
Jan doesn’t look at us at all, knows what we’re waiting for, so becomes 2 weeks longer— February won’t mind, having been the shortest all its life knows what complaining brings,
its only reward an extra day every 4 years like a gold star that won’t stick to its forehead, February’s that long car ride, soon as it begins we’re asking is it March yet.
March marches, mars the god of war showing off its new but familiar uniforms
this month of sideways rain, month of flowers teased into blossoming then frosted brown
by northern winds tromping the calendar line claiming winter’s over
March has no idea how April got here or who let it in, April so caught
in its fashionable reflection. intoxicated by its own promise,
it seldom looks outside—why are you complaining, it’s April—
put on your shorts, dust off your bike and celebrate your way to a terrible cold.
The Universe Started in a Kitchen
Warm bread, cold coffee, basil rain
a medium rare minute
my autobiographical menu
dreams with food around but i can’t get any
Boil before you mash
wash but don’t peel
3 minutes per side
don’t measure, weigh
follow the pilot light
A kitchen off the grid
different sizes of spatulas, flippers, wood & metal spoons
3 knives
great grandma’s cast iron pan
this fork grew an extra tine
Eating steak without utensils
my molars aren’t what they used to be
Red means go, when it’s a tomato
someone tall & thin as a cornstalk
7 bees swim in an artichoke flower
some crops don’t want to be eaten
the only thing that grows in my kitchen
is the stack of dishes and pots to wash
a stove you can take to any room, any where
Times my stomach rumbles for no reason
if i’m eating, it’s mealtime
wish the fridge and fruit bowl could refill themselves
so when I put a bed in here, i might never leave
Under Cloud Cover
a mani-permeable membrane
four way street, traffic circle sprouting sinuous
combination window mirror camera and screen
as if I’m one
sometimes particle, sometimes wave
for the tiniest increment timeless
one blade in miles of grasses
between breaths, among heartbeats
my roots go everywhere
no reason to taste me
don’t know what I’ve been holding back til I let it go
like that sleepless, walletless hitchhike across the country
how long it took to convince myself I could sleep now
or the second trail day in Nepal, got lost,
take 20 steps, catch my breath, take 20 steps, sit or lean
resilience recovery resignation reignite
in my current flame of mind
in several keys, several languages, not all of them
voiced or heard, no harmony without absence
muscle rippling bone, pushing while pulling away
how hugs become subcutaneous
each pore can breathe, each hair
can transmit and receive
sun slices through clouds
won’t let my hands touch its light
more motion than heat
places where clouds are illegal but not hard to get a little
places the sun shines through the earth ‘round midnight
Of the Land
How are my territories divided: the physical, the emotional,
the only borders are my clothes, cat scans looking for
quick passage, hidden benefits, mazes of intestines and nerves
the river going through me can be dammed or polluted upstream
Weather grants no suffrage but always provides consequence
seasonal conundrums, the powers of habit and accumulation
but not what I was saving for which comes when
there’s no longer room or company
How to find a balance point with so many fingers on the scales
the momentum of intent, the inertia of comfort, inherent randomness
when supply demands, an idea made flesh, knowing when to shrink
or vanish, a door locked before i could learn the combination
What lets in wind but not light, a skull so tight not even
whispers can get through, an untranslatable past
becoming smithereens of the future, as it takes a thousand arms
to keep all of a life’s moments aloft, a fluid index,
when what seems chaos are the many ways to tell the same story
as plots cross-breed, as characters become their speeches,
costumes gleaned from the effluvia of closets
When we ran on all fours and kept gaining weight
so nothing could carry us away, earning the choice
to stay out of the rain, be close to a fire
what often happens around now, at this age,
what remains a mystery since no one’s seen it before
the country trying to grow inside me must be cut our or dispelled
Born Under a Vague Sign
particular matter vague concerns open seasoning
we need wind to mask the freeway noise
windows to keep out what the wind is carrying
how far this dust has come, a slow migration.
local rebels, taking a chance—you don’t know where that wind’s been
when the wind and rain boycott us, meteorological distancing
the masked sky diffusing the sun
adjusting the dimmer for 12-14 hours of equal gray
every time the electricity hiccups all the clocks turn to midnight or noon
shadows growing from the streets and yards
smoke trees street trees family trees triage
when the windows go blank
when there’s nothing beyond my yard
since the sky’s so vacant the thunder must be manmade, ground pounding
pits and spumes of dust as if slow rain but no rain—
earth burps soil yeast foundations too unsettled to not squirm
can we just jump from 6 o’clock to 9, from downtown to road free
rotate this valley 90 degrees to change its relation to everything
the rain’s never lost cause it doesn’t care where it’s going
clouds throwing off water like we do cigarette butts and burger wrappers
as if we wait til sunrise to start and stop soon as dark reaches our ankles
as a compass is not a clock of space, gps is just numbers
and you know how stable they are, how easily 8 becomes three,
take the 1 from 10, when it’s easier to count the commas than the places
even temperature speaks multiple languages and never asks us
for a reference or limit, skin wants its own arithmetic
add, divide or multiply, things get so confuddled
even gravity’s misoriented, light slows to get a better look
after decades of steady friction blood escapes, nerves stop receiving
and only transmit, wirelessly, enough pain or joy at times
to reach a satellite and either bounce or tread
into the emotional vacuum, the place so many causes and effects
hide each other. as if the sun is all we got, as if the moon is content
most of the stars are not meant for us