this ash hill

this ash hill
in my drive way
is rich, is black,
is beautiful,
&possibly volcanic

this ash hill
whispers
“beauty for ashes,”
like a stop wall for
rape in elevators

this ash hill
is a ministering,
a form-fitting tanya
tucker mini skirt
pressed right on

this ash hill
is a mother
too beautiful
with hands
because of love

this ash hill
maps a footing
which is impossible
you say to ascend,
until you’ve climbed it

this ash hill
peaks at the top
of your house
so you can toe tap
that corner piece of pie

this ash hill
is a chance
to decipher coming down
like any normal would do
without using elevators

::

for Real Toads

everywhen (a biography evenwhen)

land dishevels itself
in birthing cows and
dying cows,
terrible you know, —
cows can’t escape themselves

everywhen i love You
everywhen i hate You

but not the earthen air
be it an act of sacrilege;
and everyact of greed
desecrates meYou
and i donot ask You,

but You give it all
exchanging gifts, —
Kansas for shekels
and such, and such

everywhen i love You
everywhen i hate You

evenwhen the cows flutter
their eyelashes,
evenwhen the world is gone
to them, —
gone for me too

::

apocalyptic stuff for RT

the breathing girl has died

and

she’s happy it finally happened
that she’s not coming home
that she’s collecting all the coal
that would have been diamonds

and

for the first time, good lord
thank goodness that phrase
isn’t pinned to all the
lost girls anymore, evermore!

and

for really reals this time
she’s not that stupid girl
full of shame sickles
but feverish to be living

and

in a real specific way
all atoms and cells
are deranged, or rearranged
just as they should be, anymore

and

like broken cemetery leaves
she dances in deep blood orange
not just another beauty queen
in fuchsia lipstick on an empty pew

and

::

for Real Toads

child science

our immediate intuition
says we’re not the pine tree
says we’re not the mountain
we’re not even patagonia
vibrating underneath herself
but it doesn’t end there, —
and neither are we
an only child,
so we go back to the edge
of the pine
to the gazing mountain
we beg the beautiful bastion
to forgive us our ignorance
and our collective myopathy
— is it in our burning existence
of sheer chance
and star dust joy
that we are only beginning
to see we are one with
and one in this world?
we’ve clung to our stubborn
illusions long enough

::

for Real Toads

ante up

Red Poppy
close your eyes in the dark
close your face in on itself
you know what i mean wisenheimer

open the box labeled fragile things
open your eyes to do that one hard thing
(even if it means staring at a Picasso first)

be flirty with the light, —
it’s there or it’s not,  so improvise
use it to dilate your own smallness
shrivel your pathological safeties

::

for Real Toads

welcome home,

how peculiar
and obvious
this joy
this exultant
wildness
in forgetting
my own stunning
ordinariness
my three letters
scratched on top
of a desk
compared to
the letters
in green hope
piped across
this buttercream
iced cake with
all the charisma
in the world
tucked into each
storied bite

i missed you

::

for Mackenzie

easy livin’

safe_image.php
photo by Michelle Terry

in an act of kindness
the strawberry and blueberry
have no symbolism attached
to their tart little bodies
today, — they just burst
and zing as i fling ’em
into my mouth

but i do have to suppose
the gulls floating bright white
are overwhelmed
by expertly scooped
ice cream cones
barefoot kids offer up
from sparkly sand beaches

flocking to it
just as much as
we do to the harmonica man
with the high hat afro
puffing out sunset parables
we all need to hear

::

for Real Toads

I think of you once a month, Cheryl

at communion

I have to tell you
that the sweetest
dumbest girl
in front of me
swallowed her bread
immediately

and I wondered
if she waited
for the juice
because
she was like me
who couldn’t stomach
the stuff

if she
needed a Cheryl
to pinch her nose,
ward off gags
and upchucks
and whisper
“blood of Christ”

::

Playing it again with 55 for Real Toads

animal(s) will

i am not forgetting
my extremely old components
when i sleep
i house a mr. cellophane
man beneath my lids
he’s there on a cliff, —
i’ll call it a nude bluff
full of (at)tension
&i can see him/me
&it’s not as dissociated
as you’d think; hey,
i’ve often perceived
tender lady fingers
bringing me
to the threshold before,
so this is normal
that he/me/we are
there for bread
as i wait in a car
with a bird’s eye view
with my daughters around me
collectively (they are me
also of course) 10 eyes
eye-balling the masculine
to steal what we need, —
a loaf of bread’s our limit
&does he/she/we succeed?
of course not, though it’s
in our hands! he’s caught,
dammit, so now the we/she
must control our impulse
to simply drive off
over the cliff instead
of to the police station
like we intend to do to
be law-abiding animals,
the non-evasive type
right now, — until
i pull it together
in the morning, put feet
to floor and trace foot-
steps to the bathroom
not convicted of anything

::

for Real Toads and
playing it again with
Carl Jung dream type
work for Hedge

how unexpected

blogger-image--876194510

how
do i expect to fly;
i feel my toes
constant,
avert my eyes

how
do i work
to unground;
i have stone-
stroking tendencies

how
do i ask phalanges
to web;
stop falling
for this feathered crap

how
do i let
heaven talk
for me;
fix future flights

how
do i know
what’s real;
can i actually
take it off?

::

inspired by Karin Gustafson
art at Real Toads