glass apples and pufferfish

the poems continue

PILOT PRECISE V7 FINE (7.8)

Even though I have
nothing to write
it's still a pleasure
to open this journal
to a blank page
and write messily
in my own familiar handwriting
with my favorite pen. 



ORPHEUS AND THE AGONY OF NOT KNOWING (7.9)

We'd all like to think that we wouldn't turn around.
You can almost see the exit gates
though they are dark and obscured by mist. 
Your lyre is heavy in your hand
but feels attached, an extension of your body
wooden with grief and fear. 
It's been so long since you've allowed yourself
to feel anything beyond grief. 
Every breath is an inhale of pain
and sighing out pain in the form of wailing
choking, or tragic song. 

Your song used to stop deer in their tracks
make rabbits lift their trembling ears. 
Even leaves would turn towards you
and away from the sunlight. 
You've gone numb, but you need your senses now
more than ever.

You try to be silent on the path
in hopes of catching a crumb of sound from behind you.
One moment you're sure you hear a scuffle
the next you're certain it was just an echo
of your own steps off the high stone cliffs. 

She could be behind you
the one you loved and lost
or there could be just darkness and empty air. 
The worst is not knowing.
Not knowing the outcome, how the rest of your life
will unfold- in fulfillment, or tragedy?
Better to just look, and know
even if it means the end to all hope and joy. 

Keep in mind, you're not well. 
You've been spending your days sprawled in grass
the same grass you used to make love with her on.
Drunk on despair
wallowing in torture.
You haven't been eating, sleeping
You're dehydrated 
Your willpower is shot
as if you ever had any. 
You are mortal, as the rest of us.
The Gods are counting on that. 



THERE SHE IS (7.10)

Today I remembered a summer twenty one years ago-
one of only two summers I spent in Chico
during the eight years I lived there.
That's a lot of numbers just to say
it was hot. 
So hot that we all knew 
not to mention the heat. 

There I am, in my mint green room
in the house on Normal Street
sitting at my metal desk I found
on the side of the road
sitting in my leather desk chair
I found on the side of the road
wearing my favorite outfit of the summer
a long cotton pink skirt with elastic waist
that I pulled up to my armpits in a makeshift strapless muumuu 
It was too hot to wear anything else and I wasn't as bold
as my roommate who was naked so often
I stopped noticing. 

Sitting at my desk
clacking away at my vintage typewriter
maybe a record on the turntable
Bowie or Duke Ellington or Modest Mouse
and a boy would be coming by later
another one of those charming, brilliant, and emotionally
unavailable tormentors
and I would drink too much cheap wine
and smoke too many clove cigarettes and maybe
have a breakdown after

and I don't envy her
but I like that I can visit her here
and lounge on the bed while she
narrows her eyes at the page and 
forcefully pecks at the keys 
looking for the words that connect
to a deeper truth
just as I'm doing now. 



EASY (7.11)

This is a morning poem.
I slept solid all the way to eight o'clock. 
I dreamt of clothes shopping, as I often do.
Thrifted winter clothes
some too small, some too big. 
And a path alongside a body of water
dark and deep.
We turn a corner and the path 
abruptly ends, a sudden drop.
I'd had a feeling this would happen so
I was walking cautiously, and stopped in time.
It wouldn't be the worst thing to fall in here, I thought.
But I'm glad I didn't. 
We turn back the way we came without complaint. 

Mina is reading a comic book from the library. 
Benny is scrolling on his phone in the armchair. 
Bagel is a loaf on the the dining table, staring out the window
after checking the bowls for traces of milk. 
It will be another hot day. 
I feel well rested and languorous, loose
Ready for enjoyment and pleasure 
as long as it's slow and mellow and
easy on the senses. 



ALGORITHM (7.12)

the algorithm thinks
I want to watch AI generated videos 
of someone slowly but firmly slicing into
unsliceable objects like
gold bars and glass apples
and even the earth
its hot magma flowing out like melted caramel
and unfortunately
somehow
it is right. 



TRICKS (7.14)

What are your tricks for getting out of a bad mood?
Do you take a walk?
Have a glass of wine?
Call a friend? Take deep, slow breaths?
I could do those things
but honestly
I want to savor it for a while first. 
I want to grump around and 
moodily kick furniture
mutter "outta my way" to the young ACLU folks
on the corner with clipboards.
I want to do my job well but
not overly well
not bent over backwards, excessively accommodating 
not oh it has to be perfect and I'll beat myself up
if it isn't. 
I want to stay like this
a bit fed up, a bit of a bitch
because maybe I'm tired of being so nice
and thoughtful and upbeat all the time. 
Those punks were on to something with their
spikes and chains
like the animal kingdom and all its clever defenses
poisonous frogs and puffer fish
Nature's way of saying, Back off buddy-
I'm soft and tender and delicious but
there's no way in hell you're getting
even a fucking nibble.



WORD ASSOCIATION POEM WITH MINA (7.13)

tree leaves river ribbon
dress jewel coin chocolate graham cracker
     cookie milk crumb comics comedy
     stage crumb biscotti biscuit jam 
         chant robes rogue river
                paper
rock
rune
dune 
sand 
glass.             Paper 
                       scissors rock and roll dice 
                       six sixteen sweet swipe photo
picture frame frayed afraid
ghost sheet sheep fluff nub
                         cheese
                            hot dog 
                               dog cat fur climb
                                  cliff peanut butter jelly bread loaf.