Monologue 11.6067

Where’ve you been? I ask myself so I can speak more charming than normal. I’ve bought some avocado honey. The seller swears it’s the darkest and richest that bees make. And the bees are on my tongue nowadays. 1 teaspoon, 2 teaspoons. I delight in everything from soprano boys to quiet thunder days. I’ll not waste it. The poppies, the lupine, -they’re all back. This is what I’ve seen. This is what I’ve loved. That, and the grazing cattle. I’ve had metaphor moments. Ya, I know what you mean, I say to myself and smile. My mouth transforming my cheeks into apples.

::

for Real Toads

joy|is|

                   glowing
when it makes no |cheer|y sense

               re-
arranging
                         your weapons

                |red balloons|
with             laughing
|gas|p

                     float,        float ,      ing 
 imp |ish| ly 
               in the oncology wing

                           whisper-
ing slower than
                  the time it took
         to fill these love|bombs|

   Hi,    iam                   here
                  suspended
                              mid|air|
for you

::

for dVerse

monkey do

it’s a poem’s favorite thing to do
look for the hairiest palm tree
obtrusely buried in the sand
because naked ones are less easy

and soft poles are easier to climb, c’mon,
every monkey’s uncle knows this
as every hand that plucks pizzas
over yellow bananas knows it too

to be real there’s a monkey named Austin
here on the page and it’s not a playground
for lovely words like caress or cleave
although there could be room for that

a poem isn’t totally useless if
it has something to hold onto:
a banana, a slice of pepporoni pizza,
a hairy palm tree in plain sight 

monkey leaves the page coconutty 
leaves it up to you to discover,
to touch, to feel, to ingest, to
sling your own shit around

::

for Real Toads

nice place

you have here
a personal book
shelf celebration
painfully unanchored
if not disorienting

you have here
an original coffee maker
one rocking chair
8 women
3 children

you have here
clean bathrooms
scented candle
modern curtains
brunch items

you have here good
and well 
my foot
pointing south
back to normal

::

[MZ at Real Toads wants to know the
weirdest thing I’ve heard this week.
Cutest boy asking his mom “Can we go
back to normal?” He meant home.]

plum-tipped grass

the guy in the flatbed truck
who doesn’t talk in this poem
who doesn’t think as he looks
watches her rise out of nowhere
which is exactly in the middle
of the rippling green waves of
his secret pink brain, in the
middle of the plum-
tipped grass tickling her cheek

her hair, her legs,
impress him as Spring embodied
and he wants to know the secret
meadow where she often goes, he wants
to know if they once, in fact, have
lied there together – but he’s struck
stupid, uneasy. and she only half
-way means to leave that grass stain,
– to start that brush fire

::

for Real Toads

it’s home

I. Spring

it’s the tallness
of pompous grass
the leanness
of poplar trees
i know

II. Summer

it’s a glass of sugar tea
ice cubes swirling
around a slender spoon

it’s a garden hose
draped in my hand
my thumb knowing
what to do
to fan water
evenly over my plot
before dusk
hints at turning
the sky pink,
orange and red,
then black

III. Winter

it’s work boots

IV. Fall

it’s the kids’ tree
swing i tie off
on a sturdy branch

it’s done

::

dad makes a home for RT

as green as my mother/brother

fullsizeoutput_292b

sometimes both of my eyes are as green as my mother/brother
and sometimes my kitchen walls dock on the magic carpet ride
color wheel wedge, from whence mother/brother and i do spy
miraculous flying fish leaping lively from deep-dish slices
of time outside her sundowner’s window. they leap with such
intensity we all swear it’s one hundred percent real, our
happiness, our green, hand-on-the-bible, evening time oath
(yes) i suppose one can say all of this wish-wash is un-
intelligible sea speak – i’ve had to do it a lot lately,
lie down in springtime, be perfectly prone in a mountain stream
just to begin to get an inkling of the kind of green we mean,
the green as green as my mother/brother and i/

::

for PAD and Daily Post

diamonds

of sweat
ooze from every
single country
represented
on her face
she is raw,
she is unkempt
she is beyond
becoming complete
un-doing traditional
bounds of beauty
as it may,
Israeli,
Palestinian,
(Romeo) Juliet
but more than this
warpy reservoir
there’s the smell
of seaweed, the
color of speech
the accuracy of
diamonds, –
only now
you think you
have felt
cold in your
hot hands

::

for Real Toads

this is all for you

the sky
is yellow
the fields
are blue
a meek sparrow
overlooks the swine

is this what i’ve become?
you’re sleeping on un-
cased pillows
i’m living with
crazy unbattened buttocks
a heart no longer
beating on my sleeve
it’s closer to center

time, you’re doing it right
– you are a friend

::

for Real Toads

i’ve tasted afternoon

&what light can do, –
shedding dust,
revealing just how much of
a sequined party is going on,
when all i can do is pass
unauthorized green veins,
pink husks invisibly through it
–heartbreak hands never
quite catching the light;
stirring the catalogued years
of wheat fields waving.
gold is the color i taste.

::

for Twiglet & Real Toads