Musings and Mirth

A Postcard from the Volcano by Wallace Stevens

night-sky-stars

(A great poem by a great poet)

This was a day when nothing happened,
the children went off to school
without a murmur, remembering
their books, lunches, gloves.
All morning, the baby and I built block stacks
in the squares of light on the floor.
And lunch blended into naptime,
I cleaned out kitchen cupboards,
one of those jobs that never gets done,
then sat in a circle of sunlight
and drank ginger tea,
watched the birds at the feeder
jostle over lunch’s little scraps.
A pheasant strutted from the hedgerow,
preened and flashed his jeweled head.
Now a chicken roasts in the pan,
and the children return,
the murmur of their stories dappling the air.
I peel carrots and potatoes without paring my thumb.
We listen together for your wheels on the drive.
Grace before bread.
And at the table, actual conversation,
no bickering or pokes.
And then, the drift into homework.
The baby goes to his cars, drives them
along the sofa’s ridges and hills.
Leaning by the counter, we steal a long slow kiss,
tasting of coffee and cream.
The chicken’s diminished to skin & skeleton,
the moon to a comma, a sliver of white,
but this has been a day of grace
in the dead of winter,
the hard knuckle of the year,
a day that unwrapped itself
like an unexpected gift,
and the stars turn on,
order themselves
into the winter night.

We live in a desert

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Trying not to worship the Sun
Water eludes capture,
leaks and drains where it can
before drying up
and giving itself over to air
Underneath it, the earth’s crust bakes
October and it’s still too hot.
Here comes you
A perfect storm,
swollen earth soaked with
and swallowed up
Leaving surfaces wet and slippery
Flirting with electricity
Igniting wildfires
only you could put out
Reflecting up what looked into you
a world of undiscovered history
beneath.
You never leave me dry.
Involuntary juices called forth
like swollen, bursting clouds
not waiting for the right moment
to unleash the deluge.
It’s never wet here in the desert for very long.
Soon the pools of dark water will evaporate,
The dirt surfaces will crack again,
turn to dust again,
What remains is whatever is left
when the storm passes.
Flowers, hundreds of them.
Clean glass windows on cars.
Tiny hidden puddles that remember.

Tracking

Playa-del-Carmen

Outside of Playa del Carmen
Wind bends trees to kiss the sand
Thirty, forty, a hundred tiny crabs
Cross the strip of highway
Over half will die

A hurricane stirred in a nearby continent
The sea turned our legs numb
A nightmare of conflicting directions.
Passionate confusion,
drowning in it.

The dampness of the sheets,
In a triangle bed
How the sun sank,
Vodka drenched lips
Palm pushing my chin back.

The crabs flattened like paper dolls
under the heavy wheels of cars
Nothing can stop a hurricane
Nothing can keep you alive
a minute past too late.

“Show us your ass.” Madonna Gets Political

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You know, the answer to her question whether people will ever take her seriously, is a resounding no. But that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t keep on keeping on. No one will ever take her seriously because they look at her life and don’t think she, in any way, shape or form, can relate. How can she relate to anything ground-level?

But I admire anyone who is this outspoken. As long as their politics are on the right side.

First Almost Love

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Summer night
1983
Feet bare on August cooked asphalt
Ojai sky indigo
trapped under heavy orange glow
Naked for the first time
Running
When the moon, you said
Crab grass prickling under our feet
dewy leaves feather brushed our skin
Say I love you, he said.
But you don’t mean it.
Say it anyway.
Just for tonight.
Because the moon.
We wrapped our arms like morning glory
and its strangling flower
No time for blood rising
Nor fluids nor warmth–
Just the night
The indigo
The unwanted I love you
left laying out of its box
Still beating
Long after our homes took us back

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About Me

I spend way too much thinking about me. This is the blank space where that paragraph should be.