Around the Block

We all hope to be admitted to the formal program 
of eye surgeries and getting groceries, returning
from distances traveled where blessings flowed
on Sundays and phone calls were made to
remember truths inspired by change and disrupted
before stable time and mask-wearing.

Some transplants work better than others
allowing a few to become busy once again
making holes in roofs for friends to drop in
unexpectedly, challenging the most
difficult adage, Play can be work, and serving
eggs and toast with strong coffee for breakfast.

And still others grow tired of the noisy routine
of taping window signs to glass demanding
guests cohere to a set of guidelines created
by those who talk a great game but fail to enjoy
their favorite snack and continually wander 
around the block of anxiety in need of weeding.


Trailing a chased desire turned memory,
Age creeps and twists to white life's diadem.
The bench of old men sit in reverie
Asking wisps of air shimmering before them:
“Where did our time go?”  Hours fade and turn.
Withering petals whirl and glance to ground.
“To dust?”  Not yet.  Ashes of flesh still burn,
Yearning for the touch of a lover soon found.
Hidden among pale towns in and out of mist
She dances on lanes of glittering stone.
Outstretched arms encompass all and, kissed,
Inhabitants touch their cheeks, each alone.
     Wonder grows and grows to eternity.
     Human and being wrapped in mystery.


The metrics show a decrease in privilege
despite more attention being paid
to differences incenting niceness.

Uncomfortable work reversing trends 
of excellence in response to being
screwed fails once again.

Victims of the same pedagogical
systems which teach downward
mobility remain enthralled.

We kid ourselves by filling our garages
with used mattresses thinking
Jefferson's meritocracy has arrived.

Great thoughts remain small behind
curtains while little men control
the levers of work and play.

The Spider in the Corner

I sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I don't want to give the words 
of the prophet any chance 
to ruin my day today."

She rolled over and, waking up,
slowly said, "Was that you yelling
in the bathroom?"

"Yes," I answered.  "I stepped out
of the shower and turned to the spider
in the corner above the door and asked,
How do you get food?"

Yawning while arching her back to stretch,
she said, "It helps to remember that
creation and completion are two
very different acts."

I agreed.  "Such a strong feeling threatens
to overwhelm me."

She sat up.  "All the more reason
to recognize your need to be in
the midst of people who stimulate you."


The introduction of body trauma at the age of six
draws ghosts and demons out of dark closets,
like a ruinous rush of children onto the playground
before someone gets hurt at recess by falling
off the monkey bars because, given the chance,
words can become tangled and powerless to prevent 
this spring morning day to come crashing down
around any intentional steps taken beyond
the timbered bark confine enclosing the days games.