Can you guess the media I used to make these?
Strange what you hear when truly listening.
The young man who complains the most and says he does not care,
he works the hardest.
The gossipy ladies have perfected lazing.
His water was cut off today. A long complicated story explicating.
The people most deserving of a hug often would be the first to refuse one.
The kind of kid for whom you cook a tasty yet healthy home~cooked meal.
Even though you know he wilt likely throw it out without eating;
but, it is the thought and effort worth counting.
The barricades to heaven remain taller than the wall situated at this country’s southern border.
People fleeing hell unknown and giving up everything.
Just for a shot
At a better life.
The barricades are even higher if you inquire about them to the followers of an orthodoxy.
I am just trying to hear my soul. I do not need your sermon.
Sick of self importance and formal liturgy.
I am what I wilt to be.
They art trying too hard because they have vision yet refuse to truly see.
And, should the devil may care
And try to confound, I shalt say,
“Bring it on.”
I observe him when he does not know I æm there.
Who he is when know~one is seemingly æround.
An ænimal in his natural state.
His eyes go soft and unfocused.
His voice rises in pitch, ælmost imperceptibly.
Beauty without æwareness.
A repeated, unconcious nod recurring.
Stalking like æ big cat,
Æ Espy with mine brown eyes.
Shining teeth and blooms of the moon.
The watering can found overturned this morn; spilt was last night’s prepared water.
I tried to tell you, “let it age,” yet, what you heard was, “it is not a game.”
What was actually said only Know~One knows,
because having a steno pad is not the same as having a stenographer.
Shorthand and chicken scratch scrawlings.
Pecking and clucking.
A woman once asked my paternal grandfather,
“What do you do with an mean rooster?”
He replied, “take your hands and hold him beneath the water until he falls a bit still.”
So, she did.
Upon coming too, the bird nearly tore her eyes out.
“You did not hold him under long enough,” he dead-panned,
when she presented her grievance to him.
Careful whose advice you follow,
particularly if they keep one hand in their pants’ pocket.
Might just be a touch of sardonic, Louisiana Southern gothic.
I always watch the cycles of the moon.
They pull the tides of my feminine theatre.
Waking at six in the morn to watch the Worm moon squiggle to its setting.
Eagerly awaiting the egg moon aka the pink moon.
I put the snake’s oil over my face.
I slick back my long hair because, you know, the devil’s in there.
A Good Friday.
A potato casserole with green onions and sour cream.
A lamb wilt
And, what frightens is often the deepest kindness.
A casted shadow is dark, but only because it derives from the sunlight’s strike.
Æ am a real kunst of a hard luck lady.
Slicing your meat whilst always
Cutting my teeth,
Making ends meet as Æ please,
Because Æ played squirrel and not grasshopper.
Enabling me to play in the spring.
Struggling is part and parcel to most artists.
A choice choosen.
Not an old work horse called a salaried slave but a prime cut slice of an hourly wage.
You wilt pay me overtime after forty hours.
And, I shall not work sixty for a base salary.
My economy demands.
A bull versus a bear.
Your need is inelastic whilst mine is elastic.
Long ago did Æ graduate from walking on eggshells and begin walking on broken glass.
I ain’t happy; but better yet, I’m feeling glad.
The tiniest of spiders, spins her web six inches away from me.
Battling heavy wind, and frequently resting.
I must appear to be a monolith, nothing to fret or fear.
I look away for two seconds and it takes me a minute to relocate her.
She moves quickly.
I locate her, suspended,
upside down to what we think of as the orientation of gravity.
Restful in suspension.
In the States, pop culture and modern literature teachers will say,
“The most beautiful phrase in American English is ‘Cellar Door’ “.
A most~loved family member just texted me this line in the casual context of our
“I died in the wool romantic and an idiot.”
Sent to me with no pretense of impressing; sent in utter, spur of the moment honesty.
Howl could this ever be topped?
Impeccable and to be aspired toward.
I end the prior sentence improperly, purposefully.
At times, certain bits of shadows overwhelm and attempt to call you back.
Home to the Pitt of Settes.
Because shadows fear the light.
At times, certain rays of sunlight overwhelm and attempt to call you back.
Home to the Haven of Heavens.
Because sunshine fears night’s shade.
Their conspiracy is to whisper, “I am better than the other.”
Begging you to pronounce an opinion.
But, you are neither one more so than another.
Just the knot bisecting the lifespan of a life’stime.
Suddenly, it stinks of coal burning.
They still burn it in homes here.
What derives from the atmosphere of an old coke town to our nostrils’ mounds.
The previous day spent, cutting meat and choking cheese.
Over eight hours, not a single slicing/chipping machine cleaned,
except by me, with a wet rag. Only later shown where the sanitizer station resides.
Dirty, but pure.
The roast beef rack, must be opened over a sink.
To let the blood drain.
For some, too red.
For others? Not enough.
Longhorn cheese and the ground up goat body of a head cheese.
Dirty, but desired. Harsh.
Everything, but the bones and put into a gelatinous mold.
A restauranteur calls me three weeks late.
I ask, “Do you make your pasta fresh?”
Gums cauterized and still bleeding.
So many people. Overstimulation.
Sit in the sun. In the quiet.
Safe, yet unable to say, “yes.”
“That would not be my preference. For tomorrow there will be a new, unknown crowd.”
A young nanny walks down the back street with two youngsters.
A girl on bike, smiling, with hair flying and shining in the early evening’s setting sun.
The boy trips. His face contorts into an almost sob.
The nanny did not catch him, but catches his expression.
Her face contorts alongside his; but, she begins to giggle, ridiculously.
He follows her lead.
A cry averted into a laugh of “I cannot believe that just happened.”
Remember the faces of the parents who birthed you, beautiful or ugly?
How they looked at your earliest memory.
Recall your face as a child,
As you saw yourself versus how you now recall yourself
The imaginary worlds you could create.
How your laugh howled with no concern for volume.
How you could cry freely when it hurt,
When you were treated poorly.
All the promises you made to your future.
All the things you swore you would never do.
The jobs you would have.
That thriving trove.
Oh, and all those places you would go.
Up and over where the sidewalk would end.
The edge of the world.
The thrill of the steep cliff over which you would fall off when sky met horizon.
There would be dragons to slay, or better yet, befriend.
The letters that gave you trouble as you learned to scrawl.
S’s, proper formed but backwards facing.
The pictures you proudly drew poorly.
The smell of a new-to-you, second hand book. A cheap, new sketch pad.
The sibling you craved but never had; the one you had and came to adore.
Recall falling apart frequently and immediately remaking yourself.
Tantrums displayed or bottled up.
Therein is the eternal beauty of the fleeting.
And, it is yours. No one else’s.
Anytime you are thirsty, return here.
“Everything went pear~shaped,” he confesses.
Oh my, no wonder your food comes out in messes.
The sudden rain gusts down in slants,
My tresses go straight into ringlets.
My hair predicts humidity, precipitation, and barometric pressure better than any meteorologist.
I leave the house with it styled one way to return, from a walk, with a totally different look.
It is the Scotch-Irish of my bloodline.
Bearing more neanderthal DNA than the majority.
Whatever that may mean.
Squeak, the cat, goes exorcist onto the door’s screen,
Startling me by meeting mine eyes with hers at an unnatural, five foot level.
Paws splayed in strange ways.
Twenty minutes later, she is asleep in her bubble wrap insulated, amazon box.
What a joy to see that what I perceive as trash becomes a highly prized toy.
A clean kitchen.
An extra tablespoon of further chilled, unsalted butter,
An extra splash of buttermilk.
No eggs required.
Unbleached, fine flour.
Working to perfect the finicky.
A smaller cutter,
A quarter inch thicker batter to cut.
Over and over
10 dollars yields 48 rounds.
I am in love.
Here's your goat head on a post.
Ewe wanted this attention, no?
And, should they challenge you again, their head wilt be piked by these unknowing
hands of mine.
No pride found in these lies
Do you not find it tiresome trying to sound so pretty?
Old pfotos with pfilters, clinging with cutesy lighting.
Why do you write to appeal when you could write things a’pealing (like bells ringing) to the attention of those whose attention you find so desiresome?
Herein is the hag birthed.
Do not make them desire who you used to be.
Make them desire being seen for whom they are.
Nothing more erotic than this.
They care not about you, but about howl you make them feel.
Phantasy is lovely but be~cums quite unbecoming
in actual sun.
The tired and haggard seeking untrue beauty that is, in reality, quite unseemingly.
Lies and tired eyes.
Don’t worry; just bounce.
Know~one hates you more than ewe hate yourself.
Reflection of their face to themselves and to their eyes, reduces them to knees.
Which you have never seen when you get on yours.
Remain true, because you are exhasting.
The exotic is often insincere.
And, if some-1 tells you it is unflattering to speak like this?
Expect to find another faux goat head staked.
Pria~puss is just a laugh.
Who tells you that you wilt embarrass yourself,
Bye, speaking thusly?
Persephone is undeniable.
He moves slowly.
Brow wiped against triceps brachii.
Dewy and salty. Deep inhalation.
Wild hairs blowing in the humid breeze.
Turned inward. Toes pointing towards the other foot’s toes.
Face downwards, yet eyes casting up.
Observant. Quiet spoken.
A grin never breaking into a toothy smile.
Things move behind me in hushed shuffles of productivity.
Me equals silent and still, unbending, steely weal.
A pinch of sadness found in frustration.
The loneliness of a crowd.
The wrought iron twists.
Eighteen dancing slips slide behind a single veil.
Nothing from nothing yielding some~things,
yet, remain unspeaking.
Starshine seen that died already.
And, I feel your shame.
Pride comingling with this being.
I miss my Funk and Wagners more than necessary.
Divination by dictionary.
Play things never put away.
Immaturity extracts blood from the stone.
Holed up in worry so much so a hole in the head could incorrectly~seem to be more becoming.
Faded and dusty.
I miss the mark.
Even my writing hardly starts.
Cold heat unseemly, waiting for skin to begin slowly peeling.
Too dark to share; too scared to hear.
Intimidation of trying shines in thine eyes.
The heat and humidity following the vernal equinox bleeds the ink of my pen and smears the stains of my writing on the page.
The crocus thrive with steadfast confidence.
The daffodils explode perfectly.
The primrose remain fussy divas.
The rose bushes work hard despite struggling.
A place with seasons shocks me.
Just as my skin adjusted to the same color of the lily white opalescent tenor of the frequent snow,
The spring sun shocks my flesh into the rosy red of a proper sunburn.
No sooner has spring spring before I realize I must prepare my soul for the not too distant summer.
My scratchmade buttermilk biscuits finally learn to rise.
A new oven; a new season.
A novel sense of urgency.
It is the season to become.
As one dies, so is one reborn.
With an eye on the sparrow and his one eye on mine.
And, the singers of hymns look at me sideways, and the modernity looks on with eyes rolled at me.
Stranded between two sonars.
But, know what?
I sing because I am happy,
I sing because I’m glad.
I sing out of key, yet, wholeheartedly.
Because I am free and here is spring.