Love: A Retrospective

she’s the one rewrote my book
castled, then took my queen

upended everything I took
for granted, know what I mean?

the gifts bestowed, some damage done
we parted, unafraid

our lives, these books, the paths we run
remainders: buy, sell, trade

Me, oh my.

If there’s an I that I can see
it’s me that sees it, got it? See?
If there’s a you that sees us too
then count us: one, two three.

But if your you has also two
like me and I, one tally more.
That I and me and you and yours
would make it… two, three, four.

My alter-ego checked my math
and says it rather stinks.
We have six personalities,
he says. They’re out for drinks.

Your alter-ego, may I know
the head count please? I’ll wait.
Eleven more and counting? God!
Well, this is bonkers, mate.

I wish the I and me, and you
and yours, and all the others well.
I’m quite perplexed (or is it me?)
and how about you? Do tell.

Bawdy Weather

a carnal hungry chilly breeze
blows down the lane do what it please
cold fingers creepy up my blouse

and down my panties behind the house
trump my ta-tas he grope my dinkies
lickity split up and down my pinkies

I say weatherman! make it stop!
he say what girl, I ain’t no cop
I ask him isn’t it your duty?

he say “girl don’t you shake no booty
arctic harveys will blow on down
to pinch your cheeks and run your town”

I called that boy a punk and left
to find my sisters, all bereft
we got together and called the news

fuck you, weather: go sing the blues

Haunts

you flat-lined in a speckless green room
long nursing that saline bit of light

departing all, the tactics, ploys
the body that you thought was you

with all its hopes and needs and joys
has up and gone, it slipped away

so now you search for haunts anew
nowhere to go, no way to stay

the heartbeat line is flat, a bow
to fleeting breath, and hope’s decay

they note the time of death as now
and exeunt all, give o’er the play

That Fucking Moon

refracted in the moondust
saucer round, the light
it comes our way, obey
her, cyclic lunatic
the hounds and wolves
have paced all day
come out, come out
come out and play
but soft what light the
tidepull on your hunger
and your wolven groin
she’s close enough to fuck
with tides and passions
nerves and hormones, luck
to man and beast alike on
land or sea or airborne tern
that fucking moon
we never learn

In honor of this evening’s full moon. Get
out there and sing to her then, shall we?
PgR 10/15/2016

wordling herds

the words you select
may like sugar confect
or like rain, bring an end to a drought

they may also inspire
indignation and ire
or weaken the knees of the stout

if a word feels right
as it slips past your bite
then that’s good enough, have no doubt

if your meaning got skewed
and it started a feud
you may just get boxed in the snout

but don’t second guess
at your word salad mess
if your audience won’t come about

at the end of the night
they will quibble and fight
so be even, there’s no need to shout

reminderesque

electronics chiming, beeping
calendar boxes addressed to us
reminders joining, streaming
it is all an insentient reminding

reminding me of something
the watched pot ever boiling
calling things to mind
sorely lacking for things, this mind

like things won’t come anyway
bursting in unsummoned
like water won’t seek
won’t join its own level

at least a paper calendar
can be twisted into kindling
that burning, hisses at the touch
of remembered raindrops

what are gods if not remembered
what is power, outside of
obedience to memory
what is the next thing

the corrections of matter, atoms
seeming indivisible memories
and forgetting our way in
breaking, entering, knowing

what shall I do
come these demands to my
bed, nudged from this sleep: the domain
of unknowable appointments

rushes are meeting, courting, mating
broods of baby rushes, feeding
reminds me all of something
temporarily lifelike

mommy, there’s nothing to do

it’s change that makes things different
from the things they used to be
and restlessness that makes us wander
sea to shining sea

it’s craving makes us want for want
and claim it all as needs
the things that clutter up the yard
rusting in the weeds

it’s worry makes us preempt war
with wars we have to wage
and thinking makes it seem okay
to justify the rage

it’s peace that makes us fidget
in a darkened, quiet place
and boredom yanks us to our feet
to run the human race


Here’s my workflowy note that led to the above verse:

It’s easier to think your way into
war than it is to fight your way out,
but mommy, there’s nothing to do.

… which is very much connected to this:

All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.
―Blaise Pascal, Pensées