the ducks don’t ‘in a row’ here

on the dirt road to Cabeção

I slowed to a stop and whistled 

the sole sheep on the road

heading toward then past

stopping to see what and who

then turning to go about her day

carefree in a hop-skip way

lumberjacking

I

the things celebrated here

are not the things celebrated there

how can she miss those things

when she rarely attended

doesn’t attend these things now?

II

an introverted extrovert is not

an extroverted introvert

one surrounds themselves with others

with forays at home here and there

while the other nests at home with

rare lunches and cancelled plans

knowing alone isn’t lonely 

an hour of sleep in ten minutes

I was sleeping sound when

She startled me awake with 

her wet nose booping mine 

in the wee hours of light dark,

when the street light goes off

and the world is quiet and still

the best hours to cocoon 

muscle-mem’ry reaching out

touching soft ears, I cooed

still half-slept, “ it’s okay…”

always to her I coo since her baby years

are unknown to me, 

settling, roaming, settling, roaming

right-side left-side, back I stirred

She stirred, both of us stirring 

arms legs here there, I accommodated 

always I accommodate her changing places 

while trying to sleep myself 

checking the clock

turning the fan off then on

kicking covers off then on

an hour of sleep in ten minutes

then fifteen then thirty

then finally 6 am came ‘round

timing when it’s okay to rise

to eat to sleep all my life

setting times to do

breakfast eaten, NOW She sleeps 

soundly curled into the nook 

of my left ankle and rear-end 

legs forming a tent for her always

and my own eyes won’t stay closed 

the horn of Styx signals the all aboard

I

and suddenly we are all fans

of the the dead and dying 

II

I’ve over-outwardedly reached

and been singed buy a failure

to believe the best from others 

as they take-take-tell assume 

and others the best of me

when at my lowest kicked

while low and down

III

she takes her love away

and my lap gets cold

love-dust left

on my clothes clinging 

kids’ insults were creative in the ‘70s

when the words flew…

your mother wears combat boots 

I always replied with “I wish.”

Mother left with everything that wasn’t nailed down

I

you are you, you know 

your things not mine;

trust I know my things 

are mine for the knowing

your way is your way

your way not mine

trust I know my way

is mine for the doing 

II

took a long time to earn

all my skits-n-skats internal;

the collection of pinned things

and legs struggling not to, still

hindsight never woke

in wee hours to worky-work

the one to five jobs

and smith the words of learning 

No, I did that. I. Did. That.

III

Mother never got mad

Mother never advised

Mother read her romance 

Mother lit the gas

full grown and feeling

too much at four, at little fifteen 

I figured the sums and deficits

for Father puzzling through 

this and that floundering 

for decades into overmorrow 

of owning my knowing 

and figuring what to do

“Took a world of trouble took a world of tears…” ~ Square One, Tom Petty

assuming doormat-cy is poking the goat

not loud: not demanding 

commanding only when 

an introvert is required only

because the fan is flinging 

wildly, mansplain-ively

in the quiet speaking sure;

deferring to others accords

when fixed dates afford;

but all-goods and okays

are not doormat-cy and

assuming such is no way 

to poke the Goat

in the crevice without

I

“get ‘er done; up an’ at ‘em”

your words drug me, young

from slumber into the day

and in the crevice without 

Nature or Nurture 

full-grown and gangly I hid away

II

too same in our disposition 

I think…will I become you? 

silently tune-turned inward? 

after all 

we both force-forged light from dark

that tinges every fiber

of our body-soul-mindedness

rethinking, I ‘spose not

we leaned in toward

paths divergent after all

somewhere somehow someway

‘sides, how can I become you

when even becoming me is a chore

III

without focus I walkabout

to where the searing light of summer 

into gray eyes blue-green seeps

into a place in the sun where 

the hours of yestermorrow

haunt in a haze of light mist

IV

while too soon will you away 

to drift to ethers’ kiss

and the dark will win the day

over nights of dreams

filling the years we missed

“…all the days of our lives…” ~ Never Land, The Sisters of Mercy 

bits-n-Bobs

I’m not quite fixed

or wholly mended

even after twenty-3

years of breaking 

you took too much 

then he took more

‘til bits-n-Bobs

friend and father

were all there was

but I ‘spouse she

took the most, Mother 

those 7-teen years

of clay forming 

flaming out

propane ran out last night

right before my shower 

ten days before moving

should be 103 degrees 

fahrenheit, 39 plus c

that day I’ll be glad

rising too soon

getting it done

one of the kitchen bulbs

the weird, long kind

is flickering, flaming out

I’m not sure where to buy a new one

sponge bath wasn’t bad

I let the water boil

the clothe was scalding

pores opening I could breathe

I don’t breathe these days

I walk I sit with time

heart ker-thump-ing loud

Birdie loves my singing

“…momma loves her babe…”

“you slip out of your depth and out of your mind…” Thin Ice, Pink Floyd 

overload

thriving on strangeness

celebrating otherness

the homogeneous of whiteness 

the homogeneous of pheromones

the world outside my head hurts

the collection of clutter

the tiger can’t change its stripes

the leopard can’t change its spots 

but I broke, am broke, was baroque

all Tiffany lamps and guilt

I adored dark woods carved ornate;

 

now the clutter overwhelms 

someone has to dust that

scrolling, could I breathe - harsh

edges, would I bruise things -

these questions have to be asked 

the tiger can’t change its stripes

the leopard can’t change its spots 

but I have, haven’t I - changed 

on my own volition purposefully 

listing and doing - checking boxes

forced by the traumas

of a life unforgiving, unfolding;

I exist in a 180 degree 

turnabout spinning 

on a hot metal go-round 

flung here and there grasping 

the middle pole singing flesh

landing in a minimalist 

journey, settling into spaces 

negative and white

peripherally away

from the collection of clutter

the tiger can’t change its stripes

the leopard can’t change its spots 

but I am not a wild cat prowling 

missing the hot buzz of cicadas singing

I came I saw I stayed

eye settled in uncomfortably 

stubborn in my decisions

playing the long game 

thwarted attempts at living

subject verb: I want

amicable agreement doing 

wash rinse repeat 

words mean little here

where my name lies

and Murphy-blood blooms

“All we ever got was cold…” ~ Bauhaus, All We Ever Wanted Was Everything 

she was a beautiful thing

I

M, the ink-man, the ar-tist

calls it negative

Me, the un-poetic

calls it white;

space, the final frontier

it’s the things unseen

in the peripheral there

between the lines in

crevices where life grows

despite the dying light

II

I read I write 

grasping Oxford commas

and double-taps 

in fists furled 

holding space 

in my little black heart

for the dead and dying 

we once rescued a kitten that ate gravel to fill his starving belly

remember when 

the poets ruled the world?

yeah me neither 

but the philosophers

weren’t they wordsmiths?

resistance of air

I

is anyone else tired?

like really tired 

in a bone-weary

exhausted tomorrow 

sort of way?

II

my body feels heavy 

arms, legs weighted

muscles active against 

the resistance of air

pushing back pushing down;

minute dips and peaks

trip-hazards in pavements

III

the world forgot 

what the pandemic taught 

easily readily reverting 

to what was but what was

is past and never will again;

it was a heyday fleeting 

(a roaring age of excess)

we just didn’t know it 

or didn’t care;

so the new norm 

is not the old norm

and no-thing was learned 

“Music changes, but the dance steps don’t…” ~ Good Die Young, Divynls

there’s a reason some things are cliche

I want to withdraw 

hermetically hermitic-ally

giving way, giving word

is not a thing here - in general 

connecting is not depending

depending is few and far between 

watermelon BubbleYum

a man on the edge of petrifying 

took my hand flirting yesterday 

am I too old to be a sugar-baby?

a Sweet-n-Low lead-digger? 

I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay…

when life lingers overlong

but the alternative isn’t

an alternative; 

a celebration of light

in understanding the dark

you know it don’t come easy

yesterday I walked-about

in my new space uneasy 

top floor promised painted

already put-off a week then

three days in still left unstarted

other-work to finish they say and

a new promise for next week;

yesterday I waited 

in my new space uneasy 

hours in the heat of the day

for windows to be measured

in the afternoon 

a courteous young man

arriving on the dot of my leaving;

yesterday I looked-about

in my new space uneasy 

overwhelmed in the yestermorrow 

overwhelmed in the upcoming 

yesterday I walked-about 

in my new town shuttered 

exhaustimated

go easy on yourself 

the pressure to perform 

to constantly do

should be behind you

you sold your life too full of doing 

of others’ demanding 

to buy one of still moments; 

you sought to fill the void

of veins crackling 

with precious metals 

to mend a vessel wholly 

to hold water again 

don’t settle for spit and spackle 

in a room half lit

the heat-induced focus 

of a meditative state;

breathes in and out

controlled and counted

lounging, legs stretched 

across the divan

askew and akimbo

head resting on rough

fibers of something 

that should be soft

drunk on the heat

of a late morning sun

thoughts of things too many

are exhausting 

the future is exhausting 

“did it make you wanna turn it up way too loud…”

I’m not religious 

I don’t believe in a deity 

unless it’s a cruel one

or Freddy Mercury,

his angelic voice, his gentle soul

I would worship at his alter

until my dying breath;

there’s a thing though 

that moves through me

on occasion some call spirit 

it’s a thing I’ve seen and felt

in the core of my existence 

a rhythmic force flushing

tip to toe from my chest outward

it’s orchestral, it’s all-life

when it syncs, Gloria

and it’s there in the ether, spatially 

on the tip of my tongue

a thing no one can ever name

ever speak, but know is there

First Time ~ Little River Band

Birdie stares from the end of the bed while I stream music

I think I mourn 

musicians most

the world seems less, lesser

without their creative soul

to seed and spread 

spark in the dust

there was a spark in the dust

amidst the cacophony 

a spark kept close to the chest

in a life lived in the peripheral 

in a life lost to the wind that whispered 

“…not for you…” still

she had names for may be 

Echo Lynn, Skye Marie, Gideon Robert

there was a spark in the dust

she never shared, alone in 

a marriage of one 

“…no ever taught me to be on my own…” ~ One More Night, Tom Perty

in a sleep deeply

priceless, precious

moments of 

a deep breath and

a long snore

little paws paddling 

overlook(ed)

my deafness is loud

internal voice struggling

to be heard over the roar

a low rumble of wind in caves

the hammering started at 8 am and my headache began just after

strange things make me happy 

things that are strange make me happy 

happy things make for strange

strange things make for happy 

happy in the strange

with my pup a snuggl-ing

the damage is done

leotards and tights never fit right 

ankles too weak for point

so I sat in the hall reading, watching Mother dance 

piano, cello, flute, guitar were all fine

but non-prodigals require practice 

Mother preferred quiet

I would have gotten better in time:

but at figure eights and dance on skates

speed and hockey, I excelled

Mother didn’t want to take the time

to take me

I’m 55, Mother’s been gone nine years

and I still search for things that fit

little 15

we had years together, decades of a misspent youth 

eventually we told stories, as families do

of how and what we recalled;

but there’s only me to remember these days 

so how can I remember so wrong? 

 

in my room reading

I cut my teeth on large tomes and small, thin novellas

frail pages turned an off sepia of gray-brown, fragile 

well before they ever got to me

books my dad kept, drug from place to place

books I would drag through the years as well until I parted with them all

Herbert’s spice, Asimov’s robots, Cherryh’s space station, Lee’s mockingbird, Sidney’s little Peppers;

I carried home as many as my long, thin arms could carry

as many as Mother would allow, disallow when her whim struck or the winds changed 

Katie, Flowers in the Attic, The Cider House Rules

all read before my thirteenth birthday, significant 

a day like any other, a day forgotten by all

a day scorched when I walked home alone, before the bell, in clouds of thought, bloody 

but I was never questioned on the content or titles, never censored

too many too much above my years’ comprehension

things that made the world outside seem wrong, seem strange, seem other

things that formed me made me kept me

alone in my room reading 

the world can fuck off while I pet my dog

rabbit’s foot, worry doll

worry beads, prayer beads,

komboloi, begleri, rosary 

skill toy, stress ball

warm fur and soft ears

sweet eyes softly fading

huge emphatic sighs

her calm is my calm

albeit off key

 somewhere someone somehow 

flipped a switch

my world is brightly simmering 

and my soul is singing 

I have a certificate in Adulting

sometime between

thirty-five and fifty-five 

I lost my ability to laugh

at vulgarity; I demurred 

became less? became more?

grew something inside 

from a seed laying dormant

something I always was

deferred to

boa Domingo

spring is gray this year 

and wet

the wet that gets into your bones

your psyche 

your entire world view

ankles, knees, elbows 

bones, joints, sinew

are not safe here

s’up dawg?

the stock market crashed

the electrical grid failed

plunging a peninsula into darkness 

nothing new 

feels like home, Texas

same shit different place

the view is prettier perhaps, 

different, older

the earth continues to revolve 

on its axis

around the sun

people have stopped panicking 

when things go sideways 

there is no norm, no ballast 

there is only the thing bubbling 

just below the surface 

just under flesh, sinew

in a heart pumping too shallow 

the thing we hold in check

we are not our governments

we are humans trying to to live lives 

“I’m on fire but I’m trying to not to show it…” ~ Free, Florence and the Machines 

looky loo

if I leave the walls all white

how will that feel? look?

could I style the cabinets green?

a soft, warm sage?

the floors are gray 

the gray I thought I thwarted 

left in Texas

the gray that follows 

wherever I run

manifesting in low days of rain

love is…

she curls around me like a spreading vine 

the vibration of her snoring, a bloom protruding

holding still, not to wake her

one hip too warm, the other so cold it’s pained

I watch her sleep, little paw motions of dreaming

then a swift strong kick in my gut 

meh

If you see me walking around 

haggard and bleak, I’m ok 

It’s my standard MO

pretending to be a function human

huh

flavoring salts

and sugars

I could never be a hero

or a villain 

too much running and athletics 

the future's open wide

I left a piece of me in 2003

it wasn't minute

or in any way insignificant

it was my life, the way I lived it

my paradigms, the things I held

in my grasp, fast and true

it was when I realized

our song was really my song

all along

...moving forward using all my breath... "Melt with you" ~ Modern English

me talk real

always remember…

you are not special 

you are not priority 

…except to your pet

yestermorrow

I’ve been waiting hours 

for you to wake up. 

the few of you who knew him

March 16th can suck an egg

it’s too heavy

the lives I buried

if I could set them down?

just long enough

to catch my breath?

Birdie

huge emphatic sighs from beside me;

my body is sore as she pressed hard

against my hip, to live under my skin

submerged full-body

I’ve never been a strong swimmer

treading water

my arms my legs 

always moved too fast at first 

lungs panicking, I fought

to calm breathing I had to count

in 1, 2, 3, 4; out 1, 2, 3, 4

limbs following 

where my mind took them:

it’s been years 

since I was truly ‘in’ water

submerged full-body

aside from sitting in a spa

recently

almost two hours

and my skin never puckered 

body craving the moisture 

“It’s all in my mind, so don’t be unkind…” ~ Love and Rockets 

bug in thuh soup

shit girl, 

ya ain’t nothing

ta no-body

ya ain’t special 

ya ain’t even priority 

fighting’ fuh ya-self

just make ya a 

bug in thuh soup

her eyes were clear and bright

I grew up in a generation

of wear "no all-black" at school 

because it announced a mental state;

but  years prior, we walked 

miles home alone at nine and

arriving to an empty house 

was a parent's concern

always for me

an empty house, 

even when mother didn't work

siblings older

moving out moving on...

when she finally left dad, she left me

from states away he ordered 

things required to live a life

added me to cards and accounts

neither of us thinking 

I existed alone in a house

that once held five

I would finish two years of school

in three, meet a boy, live a life

bury too many too soon

wear all black

there she goes again

fuck me if March isn't approaching

22 years and I still don't understand

how I got there

how I got here

time stopped the year I spent crying

in the shower

doing dishes

in the car driving to work 

I've evolved into a functional human

more or less

some days less

in the deep under

on the wall she walked

heel to toe

balancing arms spread wide

looking out ahead

in the peripheral, a vastness 

swirling 

in the deep under

waiting for the sun of summer

March will mark brother’s passing 

twenty-two years hence 

now it’s Birdie’s gotcha day

one year of sweetness 

April would have been 

sister turning sixty 

if she hadn’t passed at fifty 

now it’s Birdie turning three-years

May would have been 

brother turning fifty-nine

if March hadn’t happened 

now it marks my two-year

leaving 

mulligan please

learning to swim

I sank grasping the sides

in a deep end darkly 

touching forks to sockets

live

in sense searching 

for a sunny space

for all the flowers 

of deep hues hoarded

in the hours

of disassociation

since

wide-eyed and WTF

 denial is

a dog woke

 tool early 

by an alarm

everyone put Baby in a box

without self-labeling 

others will apply their own

predeterminations 

to me, most people are puzzles

little pieces learned 

here and there

to most people, I am X, Y, Z

turning inward

some nights, she presses

neck sore awkward

inertia shifting me aside

toward 

the edge

and I wake

startled 

in near collapse;

other nights I wake

to her gentle curl

the base of my spine

warm, her little nose

lifting 

as I turn inwards

I am what I am

Probably 

Gonna

…fuck some shit up…

getting back to that girl

collecting recipes 

I want to eat 

with my eyes

with rumbling intent 

vibrant and wild 

in technicolor, sepia

and cream, deep reds

of wine reduced 

there was a girl once

curious I have to get back to

she’s not there

too late, waining wet winter

cold got into my bones 

infection got into my lungs

though the latter was not you

the former surely was

and time the only cure

found it there, dusty

found Time 

on the floor 

at the back of a packed closet 

hiding in the dark 

it was there all along 

just where I dreamt it

dragging out the heavy life

two bulky jobs and  

material trappings;

I found it there, dusty 

amidst other things I had set aside 

things to do and see

it was there in the wayback 

behind Survive

in a small lockbox labeled 

Overmorrow

shut the front door

feelings like thoughts 

exist spatially

in a clouded ether 

a bubble hovering 

in the sky past my reach

exactly where I put them 

Birdie Bonita

if I am quiet

cold distant 

on the runnings

of the world 

no care voiced

I don’t feel?

I feel too much!

too long I gave 

my days my nights 

my life; hours

of sleep to others

in the dying light 

let me live

simply existing 

amidst joy,

four paws and wet kisses 

for a moment there I thought I saw something

dry sky-blue cold turns

into wet but warmer 

and everything is damp 

maybe I HAVE lived

tightly on the edge of

a mild depression; 

give me the sun and

heat to sear white

hot flesh to bronze

I will give you 

a cold heart melting

sweetest girl presses into my side curled into a tight balll, sighing in her sleep

the future isn’t promised 

tomorrow may never become today

the world is burning 

“rage, rage into the dying light”

NYE

black ants in the kitchen 

I didn’t go to dinner 

stayed home instead 

wiping down cabinets 

and counters with vinegar 

dropped a bottle 

full of water, cap loose.

mopped the floor 

dropped said bottle

quarter full, cap on tight

on my foot

spent late hours , wee hours

with an inconsolable pup

this is not poetry 

this is life

found her on the bed looking guilty, carrot unscathed

one, two, three 

slices off a carrot 

Her favorite, carrots 

car crashes, lost children 

empty cutting board

split seconds…

climbing walls

I slept askew, akimbo

in a shirt tangled, woke

to a cold nose snuggled in 

to the side of my neck

solidly sleeping after

terror unseen invaded

‘twas a night spent 

climbing walls

in her room, reading

most days, the past is the past

but there are pieces of me

bits that were………..sweet

I try to recall, try to reach past

gray eyes once were green

past bones cold from damp

to recall

other things press through 

Sister passed at fifty, burnt to ash

interred atop Brother who left at thirty …five?

his casket baby-blue: did Daddy choose that?

or his then wife? 

flowers of purple dark and light 

his favorite color, Iris, reminiscent

of when we all dwelt in a single place

I chose through exhaustion 

in our house, the youngest 

was the Forgotten, not the spoiled

the ever Forgiving, the One 

left behind, the One who calls

the One to call, the One

who sits with death and buries bodies

only two more bodies left 

daddy’s and mine

it’s a slow race;

who will live the longest?