David

capitalize on it, deploy the dexterity  

    of intentional fingers roaming
        beyond the garden wall, reign in 

your house, an old consumption 
    plucking the dry lips 
        of an extraordinary life 

she was a harpist herself
her breath leaning 

into the microphone, pink

    in ASMR valentine, a wispy 

        stimulus, the other woman

lightly scraping shelled nails

    across a dry palm leaf, she squeezes 

        her coin purse into the king’s ear

we hum the fruit of what

it all amounted to

__________________________________

Poets and Storytellers: Noisy!

Rabbitbrush: A Literary Journal for Outsiders

 Happy to have a few poems up at Rabbitbrush: A Literary Journal for Outsiders, Been a while since I had anything published for general public consumption outside of my little ol' blog :) 

Be sure to check out their first issue. 

Thank you Rabbitbrush!

To Azul

even without squinting I see

faces in your tree, thousands green

snarling, smiling, human and non

and one leaf saying why must I be

yellow or green, dress me up

in cell phone blue, let me giggle

on a popcorn beach or befriend 

geodes bathing in soapy lava

or let me nap on the tail of Godzilla

Azul, be careful who you listen to

some will say leaves are always green

and Godzilla doesn’t exist in poetry

but, here we are, a continent away

screwing up our eyes to see 

the monster in your tree 

and the world 

trembling at his feet

dVerse: Introducing an Eight-Year-Old Artist!

artwork by Azul

Barberous

when strings embellish time

the time for talk is over 

silence is cultivated, the means

towards heaven are coded

with erasure, life is in session

domestic, crestfallen, the audience  

writhes like worms under the tarot

when the reading turns ominous 

it is a lover’s wet eye shining 

like a disharmonious tetractys 

lodging power against our broken lips

as if we could resist, or draw the bow across 

a forgiving note, we turn away 

molto adagio to face 

the question eating us, how much 

do we gain with a hush

or lose by shouting 

over the autumn mums

resolve then, to sink quietly 

into dispassion, the conductor 

leads the way and stops 

just shy of the open gate

dVerse: Adagio for Strings

Test Prep in Triptych

 i. 

slow there, and here expand 

common strands 

run steep and wide, the strange

vocabulary very academic

like the smell of an ink pen

your finger, use it to trace 

the craftsmanship of a cube

then cup the sphere 

where you stand

strain and maintain, turn

to your neighbor and explain

the endless 

compulsion to explain

ii.

fractions are soft, a loss

without total loss

the algebraic expression

is an opportunity to set right

the brokenness in the world, to reveal 

and make known the exact question 

know this and then gaze 

into the brain of incarnation

a notion now in breathing meat

iii. 

think of what you

expected to learn

this is the how

I leave you 

to solve for why

Poetics Tuesday: To ma'am/sir

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