When the cardinal dropped from the sky
When the phoenix lost its last feather flame
Setting fire to the whole damn aviary
While I was still inside crying for help,
No answers carrying the words I needed to hear
Or maybe just wanted to hear, unsatisfied,
That’s when it all made sense to me.
People are people and none of them understand
The complicated machinations of my mind
But my words, both shared and kept in closed notebooks,
They understand me and I understand them.
I live by them and they keep me together,
They lick my wounds and swallow my revenge
They kill my ghosts and give me a future to believe in
Where people are still people and my words are always mine.

We all possess                  fears of the unknown especially in spheres

A particular domain        in which we are uncomfortable unsure

A bailiwick                          where we fear to tread

In which we                       perilously vulnerable forced to flounder

Operate with                     all our flaws on display

Expertise and                    skill gaps flaunted and

Authority                            humbled for our own good

Georgia O’Keefe

anachronism

a condom in a tree

[dramatic pause]

American Pie 2 (2001)

Ten boys of the South

Fresh from education and institution

Bantered about flirtation and aspiration

Of wrongful women and this righteous retreat

On the way to Courtland

We picked up and passed a fallen rocket

And before we could clock it

We had hit the heartland

Each one of us locked eyes with the lake

Each one of us blessed by the beauty

Not the first or the last

To sign the wooden guestbook keepsake

Charmed by GaGa, a gracious hostess

Fed us homemade reubens and pie without protest

For the murals and decorations engrossed us

Some just fell under Nature’s hypnosis

Unconsciously we split into two groups

Those who were sporty with a shooting habit

Those who tinkered and toasted a Volkswagen Rabbit

Craving to keep driving in an endless loop

We bonded across the board

We dived in the lake

We fished, we fought, we feigned

We will never forget that Alabama lake

Nestled in the sand, you rest
only briefly.
Expelling a deep, heavy breath,
you spray a cloud of white powder.
Flippers move over the sand then dig in and flip,
over, in and flip,
over, in and flip,
scattering more of the white powder around you.
You’re drawing a crowd, now, but we watch
in respectful admiration.
You turn slightly clockwise
and rest
then rotate a few inches more
and rest.
And, again, until you are facing the ocean.
Adjacent to the tracks you created
while coming ashore,
you create a second path
back to the water,
slowly,
until you reach the waves
and disappear.

Across the road

Next door

In my yard

Trees meticulously trimmed and shaped

Wild and overbearing

Our gardens are winning

Sucked dry of all detritus

Sickly, dying, from some unknown blight

Battle of time and energy

Singular in their glory

Secret pockets of blooms

Goldenrod flourishes amid spent daylilies

No one casting shade upon another

Hidden gems forgotten

Husks of abandoned roses linger amid towering milkweed

Taking my turn in the back seat
starting out.
Wondering how to pass four hours and 26 minutes.
Two-hundred-fifty-nine miles,
a Bleed-Blue Kentucky Wildcat cutting through the Buckeye State on Route 62
en route to Cleveland.

A basket stocked with snacks on the seat to my left;
a box of Triscuits and a can of sharp cheddar cheese,
chocolate chip cookies, a cup of Oreo Minis
and a bag of pretzel sticks.
I’m not hungry, though.
Fine. Pretzels.

Mindless munching,
landscape gazing
past corn fields.
Will the crop be knee-high
by the Fourth of July?
Rows and rows.

Slowing down
driving through town
passing a strip mall:
Subway, Verizon, Hibbett,
Petland, Walmart, McDonald’s
The Razor’s Edge Full Service Salon.

Thirty-five miles per hour, now,
passing small ranch houses
with well-manicured lawns
Ohio State fan flags flapping
Purple roofs and green shutters.

Cleveland is so far away.

Her last breath
a symphony,
ten thousand blazing trumpets
and a choir of crickets-
a final fanfare,
or, orchestra of bones,
we know not the colors in which you speak.
Crecendo, crecendo,
when a fleeting life exits this hall,
our prayers will be your melody.
Heads bowed,
eyes shut,
your song will not be forgotten.

Empyrean mind,
how the cadence of your bones
calls lyrical breaths forth
from their sleep.
(Hazy eyes and
cool fingers
smile
      and
           lace
their way through the support beam structure
of a fractured ribcage.
This story is only told so many times.)
           Whisper the days away
                 and lie with another,
                       uncovered,
                           on the bed of bared mentalities.