I’m fooling myself thinking
I can still be friends with your brother.

We smoke joints together outside you rich aunts house
Midnight in Louisiana, drunken whispers.
Your young gay brother and his tall husband
They loved me for the parts you didn’t.
Secret cigarettes and pot smoke.
Lit with lit eyes gulping
all the good parts they could see.
I smuggled in four joints when your father died
and gave them all to your fragile brother.
Held them out, cradled in my hands
gifts for the heavily medicated.

You: alone and sober like you like it.
You hated your brother because he was just like me.

The edges of my heart have sloughed
from the immersion in your drama- 
this might not have a good endpoint.
I want to stop imagining your eulogy,  
to see my sister as I saw her once
I know there was good in her
She was tough and fragile
cruel and kind
I say goodbye to you every day
Are you still here?

It’s me – 
Your big Sister – 
Remember 
how I held you
until you fell asleep?
You were so little then
so quick with small kisses.
Now when I visit, 
you might show me your games
or turn away from me, 
shrugging your small shoulders. 
Six-year-olds can be cruel.
Tell me a thousand
knock-knock jokes – 
I promise to laugh
at every one, 
only don’t look through me.

Pause in washing underwear
in a chipped,
dark,
park bathroom.
Look down the dim corridor,
your son at the end,
crying to go outside and play.
Remember that you love him,
Soon this will be a memory,
You have beer at home.
It’s the beer and the love
that get you through.

16.6.29  (Ways to kill in Orlando more difficult than Omar Mateen’s Sig Sauer MCX Semi-Automatic Rifle)  

To kill one tiny life, a clump of cells the size of a pen tip,
one must perform an ultrasound, to see one’s unviable
victim, before receiving counselling about
why one wishes to end the growth on a uterus;
then wait twenty-four hours, a whole day later
than the walk in/walk out purchase
of a military grade weapon.
At no point during this probing of one’s
murderous desires, can a doctor ask
if one owns a gun.  

To kill a spouse, one must first become a spouse,
must drive to a county clerk office and prove
one has taken a four-hour pre-marital course,
under an approved list of psychiatrists, social workers,
therapists, counselors, or certified religious
institutional member, in order to make sure one is ready
for the responsibilities of marriage, emotional capacity
to deal with the burden of filing a Joint tax form. If not,
one must wait three days to prove one is dedicated to being
proper spouse so one doesn’t make a mistake of ruining a life
through marriage; a wait seventy-two hours longer than buying
a 6-pound machine capable of firing 30 rounds of
intermediate 5.56x45mm NATO cartridge originally designed
to meet Special Forces demands.

To kill a handful of people in a midsize sedan,
one must have a driver’s license to purchase a vehicle,
must go through a four-hour Traffic Law & Substance Abuse Education Class,
a written test, a driving test, and log 50 hours of driving practice;
for the State of Florida recognizes that a 3,010 lbs. Toyota Prius at 45 MPH
is an inherently dangerous death crusader, which requires not only
strict training certifications, but also a birth certificate,
Social Security number, and two proofs of address;
whereas a .426 oz bullet traveling 3,020 ft/s
is an inherent right and liberty,
one which requires no license, training, or permit
to carry into a gay bar on Sunday Latino Night.

Inspired by Tessa Stuart’s “7 Things That Are Harder to Get Than an Assault Rifle”, Rolling Stone Magazine.  

Empty husks scatter
Their filling strewn at your feet
Both showcase and guard
Watered and fed you grow lush
Verdant vibrant tomorrow

I was going to write a poem, or several, sort of like my usual type, throwing away the pen for a 5 pound sledge, the kind that might have a line in it like

“In a just world she would be a lampshade in a library”

but I decided not to.  Nor did I decide to include the insulting one with the aside

Since I’m part of the “community”
I’ll use my sexuality
Any way I damn well please
I was elected spokesman (did you miss the meeting?)

in it.  Since it started with “Don’t read this” it’s probably best discarded.

Instead

I went back and read my first entry
And I’m certainly still right about me
But I was wrong about poetry

I spent alot of time this month reading all the poems here when I should have been working and I’ve made some progress, even enjoying several poems about cats and a poem with “Fortnight” in the title. I learned pastoral isn’t always boring, and that witchy, hippie, drum circle set style stuff can be entertaining, too.

I learned that, like autism and sexuality, sociopathy is also spectral and that the reason I don’t get a lot of what’s going on here isn’t you, it’s me.

I wrote several poems this month I’m proud of that would never have existed but for this forum, thank you all, but especially Jim, who I consider a new friend – I hope he does, too.

Maybe we’ll meet again here next year
Time for a beer

i been battling my bra
for the past two weeks
and it’s winning. 
i keep finding black and blue bruises,
delicate and sore
mottling the milky landscape
of my pale tits. 
it hurts. 
stripes and pinpricks
and lacy contusions left behind
by a day of brutal confinement. 
i want to say – 
“damn the man!” 
and “damn Maidenform!”
and “damn these luscious jugs of mine!” 
i want to scream out 
a strink of cuss words
that could peel paint
and proceed to peel off 
the offending undergarment
and burn that bitch. 
but lordy, 

my back does hurt. 

The rufous hummingbird has a temper. This tiny bird
defends the commons with intensity.

But the air, water and habitable earth are resources meant for all.
And the bully bird burns life-saving calories to hold its ground.

When one bully bird chases other hummers away for hours,
no one else can eat and other birds are frazzled.

The angriest birds may still be aggressive well into the fall
as they defend prime feeding territories to prepare for migration.

If hovering in front of the intruder doesn’t work, a hummingbird
may fly high above before diving straight down.

The base of the dive is marked with a sharp chirp sound,
made from the tail feather position, to unwelcome guests.

Google’s Hummingbird algorithm has a stranglehold on search,
but will it be enough to stave off a hungry competitor?

Hummers that do not yield to the bully
may be killed in flight by a needle-like bill and sharp talons.

The hummingbird is the only bird that can fly backwards.

we are lying on our backs
and I am plucking
tiny good things
from where they float
just above our noses
and I am sharing
the best of them
with you