Green acres comin’
To this dustbowl, sure as hell
On holy lightning
As It Was
Living must be
A constant cleaning of the crimes in the outermost corners of outbuildings on the back forty of whatever land we’re fortunate to shepherd
A diligent organizing of each and every backshelf, closet, drawer, and centerpiece of these blessed bodies of truth we call Home Sweet Home
An earnest sweeping of matter that ultimately, doesn’t matter, but made its way to the front stoop and attempted to exert squatter’s rights
An eventual Welcome sign placed humbly, breathlessly, on each door we’re otherwise prone to leave sealed up tight, that we would embrace again
Creation must be
An Open Letter To Mr. Right
My eyes were just too at ease for your world
No trace in them of repressed anxiety from years of being misunderstood by PTA moms and pain from a father who’d abandoned
No frames of deep stress lines ’round these green babies from a lifetime of striving to live up to my ugly, outspoken, simple-minded momma’s expectations
Of your need to pity me, I had no need, I gave no fuck
Without this, Mr. Right, to hand me your hand, to gift me your name — an impossibility!
My eyes were just too at ease for your ego
Did I, wanting your sugar but not a Superman or Sugardaddy strike some fear somewhere in your heart
Did my complex, uncomplicatedness confuse the machine soul in you
Of your need to out speak me, I had no enmity, I gave no thought
Without a shred of me in need of saving, you pissed yourself and ran
Moment Lovers
Step one, get weird with it. This belongs to you all, after all.
Step two, present yourselves all ways, every day, at the same time.
Step five, step five?! Yes, step five — there’s nothing linear or logical of this.
Step five, show the canvas of man what these years of kinship mean.
Step six, dip your brush in cool, cool water, then choose the color violet. Or orchid, because you are bold, or you want to be.
Step three, make a space in advance, or in the moment, or not at all. The whole Earth was prepared for you.
Step four, never end before you’ve finished, or for forever, whichever comes first. Last.
Step seven, relay your love for The All of them. Take responsibility and fight again tomorrow with the sunrise.
White Blooded: A Haiku
Spill us, we — here…now
‘Cross the next hist’ry of you
Justice, sweet justice
Hot Breath
Canine king, find me, follow me
Whether dinnertime or downtime
Hot breath on my heels
Chops pressed ‘gainst my calf
Clickety-clacking claws, be unwilling to leave me be
Guard my steps, as I’m prone to frolic with frogs
Looking in wrong places for princes
No sixth-sense nonsense, your love
Ruin: A Haiku
Those pale green-grey eyes
Were keeping me on the rails
Now I’ve fallen off
Imperfect Photograph
We, this imperfect photograph
Seemingly
In which nobody
Wants to be
Warped by wisdom
Invested in love
Honoring any of Earth
Touched at their edges by angels
Apologetic or ever redeemed
As evidenced by this Alone
My eyes stay on her