An Inebriate Staggers into a Thomas Kinkade

the plumes of smoke in frozen gentility puff from the chimney autumnal tufts of filtering trees lit yellow as if in late life sun the viewer never certain from where the light comes does it radiate from under the arched stone bridge     rendered soft with moss, an improbable fantasy for us and the drunkard to stumble upon, he knows the disappearing families pulled their thickest fabrics     over the buttery windows, he knows why he tugs at the stray threads of his damp socks he won’t stay long, they are aren’t convinced he’s only here for respite, for rest, forest and he cracks himself up like a thick layer of ancient paint, when it’s time     and god knows when, he’ll bundle his ruffles gather his mumbles within his reddish voice and flow away from the idyllic swan-poisoned waters, assured that     for a moment, he made the picture more perfect with him in it and nobody saw it

The Sunday Whirl: Wordle 773

Trending

doles out enough words

to tease the snap, to blow up

the likes, the secret men 

by the tens

scrolling by, stopping

for twelve beats

to pinch zoom the titles

of books on her night stand

they run their eyes over her 

mother’s heirloom quilt 

fashioned in times when to turn

a man’s head, all one needed 

was lace and churn

it’s what she does 

to curate imaginary 

numbers, those viral

passers by asking 

to see all of her, working

the long division

of labor illuminated 

by a ring light, she calculates 

her next move under a skin 

of their adjectives

Friday Writings #243: By the Numbers

Terrestrial

on the radio I heard a man, just a man 
declare that life right here began

with an intergalactic rock that slammed
into Earth, a soaring rock 

on which some amoeba, a stamp

of lichen, a stray cat hitched it 

until that boop of life met a drop 

of ocean and coughed 

so here we are, milking it

laboring it to the molten core  

biting down and tickling Sisyphus 

until under his rubble 

we decompose, waiting 

for our cosmic dust 

to surf a germ onto another stone

for an encore performance

dVerse: Lyric Petrologies

One More Instruction Before Visiting Earth

after James McRae 


create some form 
of expression to excite 
our sixth sense, amuse us
in a fourth dimension

we humans get nostalgic
for something new
to be nostalgic about, ditto 
with romanticism and 
melancholy, whatever

tricked out rhyme hums in your nitrogen
lay it on our carbon base, fair warning

we have a history
of crucifying guests, yet 
we starve for novel figures 
to glow in our synapses 

tell you what, just elevate 
and lead us to our mirrors

we’ll see ourselves in you, 
as we always do, I only ask that
you be a just and loving god

dVerse Open Link Night #414

How to Speak of Strength

when you stand
before a villainous statue
and a child looking up 
in awe pitches a coin

at its feet, speak 

only of the raw materials, how pure 

they must have been, imagine

 

the maker’s tilted eye, speak 

only of skill and the years 

in the studio chiseling 

at unforgiving stone to create 

such intricate medals 

how the solid ribbons 

seem to sway, marvel 

in the details 

of its heavy boots

how the proud creator

must have bristled

as he finished

in time, you will sculpt 

two hearts in the contours

of a more precious art

Friday Writings #242: Perspective

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