Quote

Buying Time

Impossible: 
To find the cash
For buying time.
Oranges, sweet crude
Coffee, corn,
Commodities traders
Delisted love and friendship
Health and fathers.
The buying chits line
The exchange floor
Like clothing once
In the bedroom.
Proof money can’t
Buy love.

In department stores
Perfumed and made up
Clerks compartmentalize
Stuffed emotions and
Big wide-eyed bears
Into shopping bags.
Leaving through
A glass revolving door
Tumbling onto the gray
Segments of sidewalk
Blowing like leaves
I chase down sealed
Dented cans of hope.

With one pair of eyes
Inevitably you’ll find yourself in a single view someday.
Walking alone without another Pair, your hands empty
Except for your
Pocketbook and calling cards.
Blistered heels and skinned knees -
No one else to help watch the bumps in the road.
Holding up one hand
Hailing any empty cab while
The sun waits on the horizon
For me to return to
No one in particular
Loneliness casts
A long shadow.

With a single pair of eyes
The myopic make few plans.
Quote

New Born Evergreen

Wandering questions before a wooded labyrinth

Whisper, asking for a grand theory

A cannon filled with run on unpunctuated sentences

And questions unanswerable,

Heard as whispers in the wind, barely audible!

For the life of me

I couldn’t tell you who said what

or what they said.

But that’s the sounds of trees for you:

Supercilious, taller, singing together, yet without a conductor in sight.

Reeds and wind instruments. Cellos and flutes. The rarest contraltos

Singing together in harmony then humming as a bee swarm choir.

Conducting an opera of my delicate sensibilities,

Dramatic, cracked crystal by the secretive octave of deception.

We moles blindly sliding through a wooded curtain

Where roads we won’t see disappear into the air.

Led nowhere by maps on the night’s inky sky, the leggy lustrousness of unlit highways rose with those low tones –

Singing ash and elm boarded up covered bridges on the broken side dirt roads.

Cold ice baby blue bodies of water

Surrounded by brown paper mountains, all

Legendary but-meaningless without keys to open

Our car doors. Nature’s perceptive parents just know when to leave.

Seeing the horror films on the backdrops of snow caps

We’re screaming in terror at mouth of the forest.

Opening wide its fangs showing the sharp firs

Shredding my skin on my way down and a swipe of a long branch,

Bark brown burly beasts ate me whole, swallowing me back in the throat of the past.

Disgusted by my taste I’m spit out and disappointed

Tumbling in the blackness, the inconsequential creation of myself

Pieces of who I wanted me to see and warning what you may notice:

In mirrors I’d become larger than I appeared.

This moment – now – burnt by fire

Burnt up and afraid time knocks down our front door.

Standing there looking at us it sends up red flares

Hot and melting pin-sharp icicles from the eaves

Coldly stabbing as only water can – cold for an instant and gone,

Alive without reason. I rename myself something simple, biblical: Ruth or Rebecca.

Snake my name in the sands as long as the Mississippi or short as the Nile.

Name me Superior or after another lake

Yet besides water tricking the ground into moving away afraid lakes

Simply wait for the rain.

But in my digression

I must admit my remission…

…for then

Bullies can spit me out

Like grizzle from a

Buzzards beak for they’ve

A taste for carcasses

And a parents’ outdated tastes yet

Salivate for the stench of the dead.

II.

Is life that much better now? Naming myself with forgiveness and gratitude: Grace drowns in the rain. While wind shakes my bones in the winter storms’ leafless branches, I tremble from deep inside my trunk, inside of me.

It’s Another Thing Now

I am willing to stand in gentle rain at sunset
But not to stand in a storm of sorrow and regret.

It was one thing to own all the mornings yet to come,

Before I knew the darkness would yield to the sun.

It is another thing now.

I am willing to see the sparkle in my loves blue eyes

But not to shield those dark with fear of life’s demise.

With honest hearts I will share the depths of my pain,

But with doubting minds I’ve no time left to explain.

It is another thing now.

My time is limited and the day’s run late,

And I’m too busy finding moments of joy to follow hardened dates.

There’s no time to waste on those who demand plans written in pen —
It was one thing when I had a calendar without end.

It is another thing now.