Burglary

Initially, it is exciting and dreadfully rich

to tiptoe into a kitchen, you know

 

where they all keep their Sunday knives

the drawer of fast food forks, a distorted blue

sippy cup collapsed and weeping

warm milk like a Marian icon abandoned 

by progress, stop and care enough

to dissect the tea towel draped 

over the counter–Mystic, it’s the Key West 

wadded up on a Wednesday morning

landscape that betrays the lateness 

of their exit, the hieroglyphic Cheerios 

and lukewarm scrambled bits

you suspect that in every house 

with laundry there is a damp apron, the breast 

pocket open, asking you to enter, to touch

your mother who slipped away, and in that way 

you won’t leave

empty handed, or alone

dVerse: Pulling poetry from the landscape

Another Rodeo

when the bottom rose

to hit me, I took it

like a champ, I suffered

in the drink of you

until the escape was too hot

    and your trail collapsed

        like calendar ash

I begged the dust for a minute

    the moon for a toast, I begged

        to overtake you, to name you

            because I remain nameless

I ran to touch the air 

    you walked through 

        as if I could catch your wild scent

            against my face, or be gently folded 

                into your gravity, yes

I was wrong for the right

    reason, the revelation

        that you were

that you were 

fucking with my head

    which was just trying

        to cinch the distance

            between have and haunt

kicked me like a hymn

    left me gasping, braying

        among strangers, the rawest

            me flayed out behind 

                all of you, just too brief

I begged your pursuit

     to hurt me, to hurl me full stride 

        into a wayward beginning

Friday Writing 241: Change

The Milepost

Once in a lifetime, you will exchange 
your boots for sparks, and flare
into Orion which you said was 

really you, and you gunned it 

like a false start, leaving

your belt unbuckled

which was a blast, your bow

was an empty bottle slung 

from the hip, which hit the ground

and the glass became shards

which is like stars for people who

never look up, which means they wont 

see you up there dancing highway 

to the danger zone or the three dots

you left in your wake, twinkling into

exhaustion or wasting away in 

the overwhelming dark, which is 

love in a dead language

dVerse: Once in a Lifetime

This New Covenant

Jesus dressed my poor angel 
in unattended weeds

and thus the lowest ebb 

of perverse suspicion 

flooded the summer 

and thus we fell

among cryptic texts

unanswered calls

and nights turning 

into suspicious morning 

routines of angry gardening

together tearing 

at the hearty stalks 

and thus the bed 

became cold in absentia 

and rich with fingers 

and thus a thin fire culled our lives 

vigorously, almost professionally 

so therefore Jesus spoke

a new wood, sending me 

a preserver, a new soil 

my impoverished angel 

tossing seed, so I could eat alone 

be punishingly alive

tending to a new shoot

Friday Writings #240: Despair and Delight

Like the Weather: Part II

germinating from the ennui, you shake 

the quiver from your head

can you weather, or shiver 

with outdoor angels

they are in you, above you 

that feed, the play

the force 

is the same as a chime

waking from its stillness

to trill its voice 

as it remembers

yes, the morning 

is a cold hard color 

slip it on, the earth 

will have its noon

with sunflowers

steeped in gray

you’re not of this pillow  

drag your coal outside

feel the sound

of today’s wet lips

pecking at your skin

 dVerse Poetics — Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

Dusk for Dawn

floating rests on a polarized light
substance mirrors illumination 

in a dream, firing up
unavailable rods, clouded cones

unphotogenic in a sense
omnidirectional, but static 

can’t trust it, the chlorophyll 
bit dust, it’s de-luxed

swap that green hill 
for a pasture bathed 
in colors unimagined

Friday Writings #233: “set another goal … dream a new dream”

Anno Domini

I sprinted for juxtaposition, swore

to shelf & page, by god, I’ll go blog

something keyboarded & scratch

my dreams in satellite 

then cops knocked & Belfast

not to mention all that being

married & to do, ta-da, the grind 

the cemeteries & signatures, certainly

there were long forms buried

in Tuesdays & saturnalia

& so much shorthand loafing

for daily crumb to bomb/bread 

& nada, again resolving to the work

before the blasting caps

then, it’s December &

what have I done: 

stargazed & grew

one heirloom tomato

________________________

dVerse: Poetics Tuesday - Looking Back