She Dances With Big Hat

Something something something

She don’t write no more
it gone
out the window like a
something something something
She don’t sing no more
one ear tone deaf
tonsils out the other
tra la tra loo tra lech
She don’t bleed no more
dripping four weeks
forecast calls
for two days more
She don’t talk no more
hoarse as a beaten joke
tongue on strike since the thing
with the tonsils
She don’t don’t no more
no where to go
map ends here at the page border
pleasantly blank

Baking

Hands press down
passing downward
with a gentle strength
like sowing paper
into books
that smell a little like nature,
a little like man,
and a little reluctant to be written upon.

Dough rises
unperturbed by
the cacophony
and her quick movements
like a bird’s
efficiently purposeful,
anticipating,
and living brightly colored in the south this winter.

The clock chimes
wanting to be
a player in the
diorama that
unfolds in
the kitchen of our family
as we gather to
memorialize our love in the most ancient custom.

Sugar blessed,
made pecan proud,
honored as coffee,
cinnamon true,
and surely
vegetable venerated:
all that we are comes
to the table, is acknowledged, and is passed around.

Discontent

Discontent splashes around
like rain on the pavement;
the cold cuffs of my jeans
unable to dry before
I brave the weather again.

A nagging something,
somewhere towards the back,
something I should have written,
bought or brought or made new,
a game plan for get going
time’s a’wastin’, make it now,
make it happen,
leap, swallow, and fake it till.

It’s a should have said
more than hello
and four best friends
slipping through your fingers.
Don’t see much of you anymore.
You don’t get to,
cause I’m at healthy now,
and you're not there yet.
Unvitation inrequired.

Give me a sec’, I’m saving the world.
Now, from top to bottom,
how can I make this situation better?
G-R-O-W-ing.

What more?

I made an Easter egg that looked like the Earth.

Studies in Texture

A Preponderance of Conversational Topics

The universe says go.
It says God is in Connecticut,
it says fame is in New York,
it says abundance is in India,
it says prosperity is in Canada,
it says possibility is in Austin,
it says everything is in San Francisco.
It says I’m wasted here.
It says go.
But God is in my bookcase,
fame is in the mailbox,
abundance is in my gas tank,
prosperity is off Henderson Pass,
possibility is in my back pocket,
and everything is close at hand.
Yesterday I leapt the abyss,
(two days after lasik
she sat outside smoking and reading
in pollen-heavy wind;
windows to whose fucking soul?)
perhaps I have further yet to go.
I spin again.
Patience personified:
let the universe come to you.
Ambition introduced:
put in an application.
Spin.
I have trouble pronouncing banal,
but I’ve scheduled to push my
boundaries next Wednesday.
Aren’t the little sinkholes enough?
Must there be landsides?
Spin.
She sits after the riot,
the silent air between us.
Two million miles would
have been closer.
Fine, I’ll go to San Francisco,
prairie dog holes or no.
I’m a fucking cosmic transmitter.
Just let me check the mail.
Spin.
“I found God,” she says.
“I found God,” she says.
“I’m beginning to understand the prophet’s voice,” says I.
It’s deep.
Get it?