Archive for the ‘Poetic Disport’ Category




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Happy homemaking: I’ll make some obfuscated man a good wifey.

Fourth of July crackles and snaps overhead.

Scrubbing the mesh strainer from a personal coffee press (a judicious amount of vinegar, lemon, and soaking releases stained tea and coffee), I am stabbed by a fraying tine of thin metal.  Right in the side of my finger at the point of articulation.  I stare at the scrub pad in the other hand as if betrayed, look fleetingly at the finger expecting watery red sanguinity but find none, and gaze at the harsh pocked white ceramic sink.  Its age refused my elbow-grinding ministrations and fizzing baking soda.

A series of percussive blasts to the northeast: Hollywood Bowl.  Tickets were cheap – I should have gone.

My kitchen shelves needed lining.

Nearby bang-pop-peeeowwww.

In acknowledgement of the central barbecuing holiday of American experience, I cut up a watermelon, store the bulk of it, scoop down to translucent white with a spoon, and eat standing at my sink.  Though I don’t let the watermelon touch the sink.

Fizzling chortle followed quickly by gurgling whizzing and then abrupt silence.

I give the scrub pad a second chance or an inhumane punishment on the counter-top.

Simultaneous multiplicity of thunderous reverberations.  Must’ve been the climax, at least for some somewhere.

The scrub pad failed.  My elbows complain.  There is watermelon juice and a few stray bits on the counter-top.  I pick up a larger chunk and eat it.  The mesh of the coffee press is silver again with only minute hints of sepia.  I have a little blushed mark on the side of my finger that throbs slightly and is probably just watermelon juice and my imagination.


White counter-top and silver coffee press mesh and unseen fireworks – happy Fourth of July.

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Move me.

Stationary progress settles over me like a comforting blanket that smothers.

Shift me.

My same-old-same-old scenery whirs by my eyes, or it would if I looked up from my phone.

Dislodge me.

My grip on the remote leaves marks and a bit of chair fuzz embeds in my skin.

Refine me.

The coffee grounds in my cup are reminiscent of tar on a beach; I need a filter.

Translate me.

I’m speaking the same language, traveling the same crossings, stubbing my toe.

Alter me.

Changes slap at my ankles like weak waves – I detoured around the tsunami.

Siphon me.

Mucus in my nasal passages acts as a secondary filtration device, but for the good stuff.

Push me.

Knee-deep in a sand dune, leaning into the gale, arms windmilling, I await the sandstorm.

Diffuse me.

I give up, I surrender to the elements and to entropy.  Then I move.

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I make my art with your dessicated body.

Pancaked dried baby bird too often met by tires,
Wings flared in noisome quietude with beak agape,
You look like a compressed dirt clod on black road.

The march of dispossessed ants finds no solace in your cavities-
Even they are barred admittance by your densification.

There should be no recognition of what you were.
Indeed, at first, there was no more than flat object awareness,
But as distance disintegrates, your permanently prostrate form
Transitions from obfuscated debris to mildly adumbrated.

You’ve got no guts remaining, no air pockets left to burst,
Recaltricant to further decomposition, but not immune.

A painter may have frozen you in this pained expression,
Or perhaps a cynical photographer waiting for the moment
When unseen reality can be captured in motive stillness.

I recall your smashed diminutiveness with words.

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Tabling the ego. 

Chairing the mindfulness. 

Shelving the agitation. 

Dishing the ephemera. 

Forking the hubris. 

Spooning the bliss. 

Needling the assumptions.

Threading the joy.

The table near this chair has a grainy surface. 
Too many grooves from use.
The chair doesn’t match; structure is metal, table is cherry.
I upholstered the chair in a wood print to match.
It doesn’t upon examination.

Sitting in the chair, I am beset by the fluttering steel wings of thoughts.
They’re not wings: knives in tandem, levitating with no chef.
They add to the grooves and nocks of the table,
Spill foam from the faux wood chair cushion.
Great.  Another needle to thread.

I pluck a knife from its darting attack.
Add it to the spoon and fork sitting rather idly
On a dish on the slowly reforming table.
Needle and thread in hand, finding off the shelf
A text on DIY sewing, I set to it.

The thread is a different hue of brown:
More buckwheat than cherry, but not distressingly obvious.
Less so than the chair cushion color in comparison to the table.
The needle enacts finger prick payment,
Following the knives’ flippant attitude toward my whole person-ness.

Introducing needle to thread for a tryst with off-color chair cushion,
There is a delightful section of my DIY sewing book about pre-matching colors.
It gets reshelved.
The knife wound gets rectified satisfactorily.
DIY sewing book snarks from the shelf.

Push the now tri-color cushioned chair as far as it acquiesces under the table.
Rattle the utensils sitting atop the dish.
Knife jumps slightly, adding yet another scar to the table.
It’s okay,
Battle wounds, stories to tell, laments with which to drone.

The spoon and fork evince some fear of the knife.
I defy table setting precedent and rescue them to the averse side of the dish.
The dish doesn’t look too happy with this arrangement.
The table just sighs as the dish quivers slightly.
The chair wonders if it has to support me again; it liked the wound – kept me off.

The shelf has tipped the DIY sewing book forward to be noticed.
Taunted by the shelf, begrudged by the chair, protective of the fork and spoon,
Abusive of the table, inducing panic in the dish,
Frightened of the knives, encouraging fornication amongst the needle and thread,
I slowly count breaths. Pause. Wonder where the hammer went?

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They said the world was an ugly place.  I felt remorse for them.California State Poppy Preserve

I walked briskly away, humming happily.

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Where is my center?  Have I lost it?  Why does my kinetic sense fail to find it in my belly?

I still turn with a sense of centricity to my body (if sloppily as always), but I can’t feel the center itself.

Is it angry with me?  Have I been sending negative vibes to that area, and now it punishes me?

The rumblings from my stomach imply more than just a filling dinner.  They are disturbed.  Agitated.

Why do I feel oblivious to what my body tells me?  Did a Babylonian tower come between us?

My rooted feet feel unearthed.  A slab of concrete has obscenely decorated my foundation.

Did I miss a sign from my center?  Was there a warning?  Something to heed?

My yogic art feels blocked.  Loads of unruly marbles cascade in me where once was muscle.

When did I lose awareness of energy flowing from my core?  Have I been sleepwalking while awake (again)?

Gravity has been a more recalcitrant companion.  The air in my head tastes of Los Angeles in dense heat.

If I close my eyes, will I see my center?  Does it hold? 

A cranky fault line is my anchor.  A fortress with one wall, my defense.

Should I be freaking out a tad more?  Is there a justifiable reason to panic?  To caterwaul?

I don’t have a hole in me.  At least not one that the entire species doesn’t already carry. 

Will my center cease?  Will it yet stand?

Worry begone, I’ve words to write, movement to engage.  One place to be.

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