I’m sniveling,

I’m fault-finding, and fact-checking August and September. The “End of summer” is a grandstand brag! The sweat at the base of my neck, and the damp curls residing there say there is no ‘end.’ I admit to liking one initial burn on my flesh like any other vacation fool might, but enough is enough already.

I’m spitting. I’m ingesting triple digits every stinking day. I’ve lost my cool, (I’ve missed my appointment with the air-conditioning man), I’ve lost my mind, and any sordid count of these sweltering days.

1-2-3, cuss, 1-2-3, cuss. That’s what heat will do to you. Flatten and fry you. Start a fire in you, — or in the old bowling alley, or in the canyon hills. I’ve seen it go down. I’ve seen it go up (in flames). It’s enough to make me want to scratch my fingernails though the taped box top of August tanks and crops. Come on, September, let’s be chill. Can’t we curl up under the covers?

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it’s my apple heart
shriveling in on itself
— august burnt tattoo

::

(with apologies) for dVerse

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March expectations

even the ducks say,
“stop (your) soaking,
let’s waddle around.”

::

a twiglet

wee

moon and stars take turns
babysitting sister halves
~itsy bitsy world

::

micro for RT

Life Choices

a golden vesper
on the rocks
~aspen leaf

::

cocktail napkin poem
for De at d’Verse

It’s How We Float

outside of ourselves
leaving this heavyweight world
~~we are featherweight~~

Switchfoot’s FLOAT video

Galaxy Wheel

I’m always walking with you, -ignoring needed chiropractic adjustments. Never mind that, because all at once the meadow starts ruminating over the fires still smoldering past camel hill. Audaciously, you shoot your finger to the moon as if you’ve discovered a curious thing. I’m taken by the brighter star. Dear God, when will our necks ever align? Still, – every day we’re more honest with ourselves. We tie our tongues, and lace our shoes.

here, inside of us
the whole sky and galaxy, –
two divining lights

for dVerse

Spanish Moss

We made a love nest

two days in a tiny house

~Trees had long soft hair

for Real Toads

We

the dead-end poets
see the icing between bricks
-we don’t see the wall

day 30 NaPoWriMo
for Poetic Asides

Thanks for putting up with my brick cakes, people. Here’s one last brick in the National Poetry Writing Month wall from Mark Strand, for anyone who can stomach just one more poem…“The Great Poet Returns”

Through the Keyhole

       Take 
     a gander.
   Twelve pound 
   bird.....all
     the fix-
     ings...my
  goose is cooked.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

for Quickly, a look through
my peephole on Thanksgiving.

Contrition

Paying contrition7308089978_097116cbe5

under tightly woven screen

~ puppy penitence

 

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