Sestina 12. Culmination.

The final sestina. In collaboration with Aytch Rae

Fleeting is the feeling of pride of peace as the chase for cash
abandons bodies of searchers buried in that snowy wood
I have sat staring at traveled roads and unblazed paths. Quick,
look to the present that has already passed, the future closing
ending possibilities. Possible paths appear, chances to recover
don’t open endlessly and they shut and life is such a little bastard

Scrying through steepled finger windows to prop her

head, the future’s hairy eyeball leers back. Resolve weakens.

Since his headlong ripping emergence from the opening

between her bloody legs, she has grasped his fingers to slow

his momentum. Now he escapes elementary concerns.Time he stood

out from behind armored skirts, his choices no longer to her credit

Sometimes seemingly innocently we stand band and watch bastard
children dragged screaming into this world. Hold ours closer, grandparents slip secret cash,
gifts we pretend not to notice . Helicopter and hover hope they never need to recover
rescue before danger comes too near. But do we disservice? Would
everything still be alright if we released white knuckled grips? Closing
down those thoughts returning to protecting we cut to the quick

Grind time: a mortar of pasty ambition. Playtime credit

a rain check Not now baby, Mama’s gotta buy you. Proper

hair clothes down to toes lacking no thing while he stood

in the margins watching Mama toil rage and weaken

for his lonely benefit. Waving empty arms signaling to slow

down. Waiting to beg a meager moment, never finding the opening

He. He is not her. He is only father. Nervous awaiting quickening
devotedly dependable he waits. Hand and foot. Still, she bastards
him. Screams at what he’s done to her. Forty weeks closing
tightening into a lifetime bond. Man and wife and child cash
in sick days vacation days, stay home help out hold daugther close. Wooden
dresser freshly painted pink for newest addition. Mother aches to recover

Scattering coins of affection well wishing, a kiss, a cup of coffee at day’s opening

secret smiles of promise for day’s end. One misspoken word and you forfeit all credit.

Slow.

Walls and trust can be mended cracks plastered over when sealed as proper

become stronger than before. Strength only comes to those who weaken

only the unbending become bowed when mowed over by what was misunderstood.

Zoom in spectate snag snapshots attempt to recover
sidelined time. Soccer ballet howwasyourday home work quick
snatches of near interaction. Surface living, wooden
hugs. Parenting? There’s an app for that bastard
supplying appointment reminders, taxi service and cash
with all the warmth of an automatic door closing

It was in the seconds after she arrived that I understood,

we are where we are supposed to have arrived. We open

hearts and at times long closed minds. Knees weakened

when I saw her. It’s her mother that deserves the credit

and I am honored to meet her, to be introduced properly

to hold her hand and tell her life goes by fast but you can grow slow

Thumb pressed by puckered lips, long-lashed eyes lightly closing
blonde curls twine through heart chambers. Clench then try to recover
composure, undone by cuddles and the big eye. Cashed
in sleep for snuggles, tears that burn, cries that cut the quick
Strapped to wakefulness by anxiety’s barbs, pity the bastards
slumbering in their solitary beds as only the carefree would.

Ancient titanic laws of man so newly iceberged are slow

to sink into memory. Hundreds of centuries they have stood.

Now listen as clergy speak, for they know the one pure proper

way all humanity must live and hard as I try my mind won’t open

enough to untangle useless reasons and  understand how to credit

modern men sternly scream children must be born and then refuse to protect the weak

Constant cynical contact causes cataracts. Her face: cracked wood
begrimed by rough hands, a layer of adolescent angst closing
her off from affection. Unprescribed antidote, down that bastard.
Sixteen and seizing in a vomit strewn final solution.Just breathe. Recover
wits as parents peer in cavernous eyes, searching for their baby. Quick
monitor beeps indicate she won’t be leaving chips uncashed.

Guilt creeps snuck out for a pair of weekend

beers. Oxygen mask day realize we are slow

to accept perfect humanity and credit

ourselves. Let our best be good enough misunderstood

think passing perfection to children never opening

accepting our truths thinking this somehow proper

The wood lies dark, the path unrecovered, tempting us to weaken where we stood
closing the last chapter slow to begin the next quick to regret a dishonest opening
too many bastards to my credit not enough cash in this world for me to make my kids act proper

For Joan (Sestina 11)

For Joan (Sestina 11)

Collaboration with   Aytch Rae 


"No one here gets out alive."

More often these days we find ourselves with fumbling tongues, no longer open
speaking wholeheartedly but stilted half lies and unsaid truths. Pretend as
if the ship has not yet wrecked that we have not yet tailspun. Are we not a product
of dispersed stardust, wishing to see a glow beneath our flawed flesh? Gleaned
from cosmic rubble, straining across lonely spaces for someone to call home--
to reflect the light of scattered starshine become brighter than a separated you and I.

Fall then rise repeat daily like the sun, like Sisyphus, like  his boulder weary to the point I
can no longer recall the point of lacing shoes of brushing teeth of keeping my mind open  
to possibilities of ever after endings instead finding bars and beers avoiding that place called home.
Shoulder to the boulder grind the path smooth. Lift the weighty world create daily mass; toil as
prayer. Each profane intake of breath wafts aloft cold heart ashes, embers quicken. Exorcize doubt, lean
down to razor thinness- keen self-awareness, warmed from within. Become a self-sufficient final  product.

On the verge of becoming phoenixed yet frequently  flummoxed. Last year’s mistakes remade, a byproduct
of fixating on living a fictitious movie life of undamaged drama and hollywood endings where home
is where the heartless or the heart was. Home is now nothing more than a house, waiting to be cleaned.
Burn it down. Vacate repetitive space, ride the big grey canine, escape. Elsewhere Possibility lies, open
legs toward the sky strung with neon. Baited breath, a lure, caught in reckless fishnets once more as
it becomes clear I  repeddle the cycle, become a trifle the flaw can’t be in the geography, but in my own eye

Balled and chained stuck in a rut backbone broken fear filled thoughts of stealing away from home
you cannot run you cannot be enough you cannot avoid suffering you cannot be anything but a product  
of society and everything is purchased or pawned from souls to plastic forks and being caught broke has
advantages: turned out pocket linings become wings, fly above petty exchanges of fluids, sarcasm, fault-finding. I
kick routine in the teeth, tear down the streets, race for my own finish line. Brandish the baton, bash open
the lane cleat hobbling misgivings beneath pounding feet. Stand tall alone, reject the crutch on which I leaned

Run. Back through memories of days lived without care days where you leaned  
out passenger windows sang along to Cash, cigarette in hand headed away from home
running without destination running without stopping running with only the hope of a wide open
future. Recall those newly minted freshly printed days you had your shine on, an untouched product
unscuffed unscarred unscathed unaware of future nicotine stains, tattooed veins, wide-eyed
hurtling ahead heedless that the prize for finishing first is a box of worms and ash .

                                                                                                                                                           as
we pause to remember Galileo                                                                                          leaned  
out over the edge of the ledge with the river swirling below                                           I
drop a heavy heart, see how fast it falls     home
now a prison, bars of fear and steely doubt, doing nothing productive
but stargazing with my spyglass open

as once we escaped  home  
          leaned on friends as damaged was we                product
latched keyed                               I                                                    you              no longer            open

Autumn Endings

It was the fall of youth, and I was drowning in cider.

Roiling in the riptide were a great many reasons for ending those lives

that belly scraped at her feet along with the rest,

a self absorbed humanity cheating at cards and on spouses.

Roiling in the riptide were a great many reasons for ending those lives.

We tightroped through with awkward glances and sweaty palmed silences

a self absorbed humanity cheating at cards and on spouses

celebrating premature divorces and Vegas weddings.  Everyone breaks even.

We tightroped through with awkward glances and sweaty palmed silences

when finally a fractured union agreed to die out in warring civility.

Celebrating premature divorces and Vegas weddings, everyone breaks even

shuddering in an unmarked grave.  Danced upon by thrift store boots.

When finally a fractured union agreed to die out in warring civility,

she was an olive branch sharp as a spear.  I was a wrung neck dove

shuddering in an unmarked grave, danced upon by thrift store boots

of her malnourished band of tin can chorus boys.

She was an olive branch sharp as a spear, I was a wrung neck dove

that belly scraped at her feet along with the rest

of her malnourished band of tin can chorus boys.

It was the fall of youth, and I was drowning inside her.

Crush(ed) Sestina 10

In collaboration with Aytch Rae

Mini-van mom-veneer, secret rock star. Pop tarts pop-locking delectable fresh
in full fruit, between youth’s unstable flower and the husk of age. Take a photograph
hide in the back of a dusty dictionary, half forbidden mostly forgotten memory and one word
is all it takes to tug those old days from the gray matter cubbies they’ve been safely ensconced
days when possibilities outshone problems, when survival didn’t require being such a bitch
the unwritten world in your back pocket, the pen in your hand still felt sweet.

Wander the bright Saturday market tasting touching fruits breads honeys. Air sticky with sweet
smells of newly cut flowers. Mums, daisies, tulips, grown with care, local and fresh
cultivated in vases, shaped pruned each petal in place wrapped in delicate tissue. The bitch
of it is, roots were never grounded, sheltered from pollen laced breezes, captive a living photograph.
Afternoon quiet shattered, flowered scents meant to relax not working, mom how do you spell ensconce
E N S C your way to a dictionary and look it up. But mom!  I don’t know how to spell the damn word

Undone chores slamming doors laundry piled to high heaven. Don’t you back talk me, not another word
Genes too tight, the monster you swore you’d never be. Post-bedtime sipping in silence, the wine so sweet
poured from box to coffee mug, worlds greatest mom emblazoned.  Retreat under afghan tightly ensconced
muffling screaming hysterical children running amok running the household pour another mug keep it fresh
Peering out of crocheted foxhole, the children in mascara warpaint red Sharpie wounds. Photograph
the moment. Time steals your children. Trace their faces, invisible scars from the shrapnel of being a bitch

Piles of unwashed laundry and no dish is clean t.v. hasn’t been shut off in weeks but the real bitch
of it? The retreating sun stole more than sunshine and left demons to whisper lies and one unutterable word
Exit. Take hair dryer drone, no scent of flowers in the shower, the bed unmussed. Become a photograph
flat, silent. Wait for sun-coaxed shoots and buds, blue sky thaw? Or trade it all for a satin-filled suite?
Morning after morning slides by unseen sleep steals hours wake up as sun is sinking feeling less fresh
less living less giving a damn less than the day before savor sliver of hope cocoon hide ensconce

Reprieve. Quiet tinged with stringed notes, fragile dishes brought out from hiding, candles flicker in sconces
dining in dimness, delicate greens, steak, not a PB or J in sight. Sipping from goblets, wash away the bitch
of a day of a year of a life, plate of food glass of wine and empty seat across the table signal a fresh
start a new life, another new direction, yet another do not past go, silently toast fresh futures speak the word
be named. Peel back the Mom-guise, discover self. Responsibilities cast off, strewn about the floor. Sweet
respite stretches out. Now restless, solitary moments bind like too-tight jeans. Hold their photograph.

Joy panic fear happiness chase in circles until merging into a new singular emotion sonogram photograph
in hand tailspins already fragile state of mind sending her to protective bedroom under covers ensconced
Duck, cover. Wrapping the comforter around internal shock. Wave goodbye to calmness, trade for sweet
soft skin, belly laughs, and a thousand weeks’ worry. The weight of it bears down, creating a bitch
creating a perfect storm creating oceanic waves called life, creating life, one cannot find the right word
but only scream to express to punch pillows to release to stream tears to explain to hug to refresh

Photograph in a dusty album, when survival didn’t require being such a bitch
Womb ensconced upheaval, an new beginning, a word made flesh
breathe through it, savor the sweetness, with each heartbeat the world’s refreshed