Suffragettes

Somewhere even here – a shelter, a safe haven embraces the “we,” the self corrected and wall-taught flowers, who grow and peek over the garden fence.

(Who did we think we were, anyway?)

If we like what we see, we tilt up towards the dim sun, and grow taller than our environs to open up the gates from innocence to experience.

That tyger burnt so bright then. How now his whiskers lay in a pyle of dust as he breathed next to the untuned mandolin.

The cat’s off balance, yet anyone who can pay bills on time spots us in our natural habitats without visual assistance.

Even gray our claws prey at the ready, sharp enough to lightnigng slash four stripes onto each freckled gingerbread cheek.

Lay our power down with both poles to promote even the pastiest of the white dullards from private to sargent major.

Did you even matriculate that year when the river died outside the state of orange blossoms and drained swampland?

When the big ass bugs failed to promote those heavier than rain mossy oaks and sank twenty catfish boats, that’s the year I really died, as my next mixed tape spun out of its cartidge.

Three and Counting

Please, just listen.
I mean listen:
Life and Look and Playboy and Harper’s Bazaar
Scattered
Black and white subscriptions
Ambiguous evidence in hand, hunting down women at work.
Sniffed out innocently by the Eisenhower oval office pet dog,
While a General brutishly  goose steps onto the front lawn of Korea.

In cloudy skies we can point to everything,
Curious index fingers ask why about that big dark bird.
We find similarity and we described it
In high school English to empty the milk cartons of meaning.
Gentlemen find themselves striped and
Reflected in receding ice cubes,
Swinging across Elm into suburban basement cock fights.
Floating, melting into her whiskey colored eyes
The missus distributes disambiguated steak and potato dinners
Defrosted
With a side of dry rye wit.

In science we would fold a mirror in thirds and
With respect to the hidden shadows find
Unnatural suspects. How dulled the senses
Thrashed by the gin mill of technology
Slowly pulled out of a Cage of empty spaces,
Drowned by the sounds of wood-paneled isolationism.
Yet we ask questions drawn from a box of angels at a miracle dinner:
An entire eight course galloping Gourmet special,
Or so-called, to feed on somebody else’s words.

The notorious vodka dressed with privately dismembered parts,
Smoking pipes, guns and skulls
Huge hips and house tits – giggles from beet red cheeky kids.
No, mother, advertisements, I swear.
No true story, with full magazines targeted by
Bullet points as submarine 100 proof alcohol holes.

And get this.
Seriously. As if that weren’t enough.
Mister Britain sent our commander in chief, still whole,
An artful paperback starring a spy and women with genitals for names.
How heavily infused with the bonds, stocks, red phones, a desk,
And one bombed blonde.
He related, I imagine he was stirred,
By her vermouth-scented breath waved like a magician’s scarf
Over his cold, bent body.
Promises of a universe held in a single Bucky ball…
And expressed on the moon.

In the years of our first breath our unfinished souls
We came out gasping for air.
Specific yet ambiguous enough
Though I wasn’t adopted as was the upper middle class
Interest en vogue back then.

Next door,
Someone defiantly sweats over a project;
Today’s Society: Our outdated social behavior.
Can you even determine a single source?
While we spread our arms wide across different domains:
Beer, soda, fashion, ties, cruises, cars.
Who wonders if a stenographer became involved with some director,
I think she probably typed for him at an agency,
He may or may not have knowledge of the messages
Samples slices of pies and examples between the unknown layer cakes.

Our lives backed over, in
1966 mauled in a dense article,
Stanley starts filming 2001.
A reenactment with photographs of Lord Snowden.
Phrases like:
“Alcohol consumption”
“Mind altering”
“Hidden innuendo”
Very redundant, for the affluent.
No apologies needed.
No offense taken.

Eventide

Riding passenger side, I snap shots
Winding up, down in front
Stability taking on long exposures.
From the back seat youth mocks
Our separated falconer’s aging grace.
Two instant polaroids, twins
Destroyed by pictures of memory.
Precious and precarious, sliding
There once, here once,
Then at once gone again.
Right heel dug into the floorboard,
My driver breaks so hard and we
Rise higher for another mile. Memory,
The silent thief, steals selectively —
As if nature meant nothing of value.
Yet we never stop to salute the flowers —
All the wild green needles.
Sewing up uniform badges of yellow and purple.
The foothills’ shoulders grow anew with peonies
And gold sunshine glowing with military atonement.

How jagged time? Uneven hours
We spend ours climbing that hill again.
Eventide approaches.
Revealing the light our hands shield
Our vision with a tight salute.
Soldiering on escape the fight
And yielding to our darkness.
Thrown at our windshield
Sticky bug bags take the first punch.
Tonight we cheer for an unknown winner:
The Surreal versus The Unbelievable.
Then we drop down tearing around the ring.
The Summit dragging us down for the count.
Face flat then right over onto the side.
Automatic machines gun with
Buckshot spray. Hitting whitetail from
Underneath the wheels,

Unifor and bones fast and cold underneath
Blankets just a quarter mile thin –
Count the microclimates in a 14 mile exposure.
My imagined assignment so real to me anyway,
Inertia now drove dissension in the
Ranks, attracting attention, dousing my focus.
Yet I am pacified by coastal royal blue velvet,
And by the courtly cape of dense silver fog.

Branching in and out to take my focus
Away, lost in the sky and yet at home.
Running beside the little brick foxes
Already started by the drooling hounds,
Follow each by each in broken golden lines.
Shrinking to a pointed index fingers,
Words written between the knotted trees
Escaping our eyes writing letters
To one another, to anyone.
I imagine the trees and they alone love themselves.
Writing in dead languages like towers of Babylon
Yet without oral tradition
No monks or followers to take dictation.
The mighty force upwards, tying rings around
Hands remembering papyrus of their own making.
They, like me, can write their own stories.

Distant deamons dance to the music of the eventide,
Whose eardrums thump and pop from slight descents.
Mercies clear the stares and the macabre glances.
And up ahead the night hides just around
The voluptuous Earth’s curves.
Yet she shakes off the road upon her hip
Langushing and lounging
Laughing at all the forsaken highways.
You snap me awake. My hypnotic state undone
By our quick duel to the death –
I roll one window down with enough sense to show
Our passage party the orange evening parades
And presents a silent moment for exposure.
When nighttime undies the simple flash
Lighting up the cul-du-sac we find a space
Quieting the car and stalling the motor.
The king and queen announced lit up by drums
Of snake oils and Butter-cupped angel’s trumpets.

Washing off any
Sickness, our plague
Knows when we’re gone
It’s done.
Waves roll in goodbye.
Goodbye,
Blue sky of eventide.
Eventide, goodbye.