Faith Came VIA Rail from Quebec City Summer was in Destin with Jack's family, playing Parcheesi when the call came. Half an hour, and she was backing from the parking slot, more rain forecast, Verdi on NPR. While Jack's mom waved from the condo window Dad still tried to inhabit his body. Charity, in the hostel in Bremen, was sleeping. For her, hope was aloft for a few hours more.
/Appointment with Death Or rendezvous, if you please. And while searching that reference I forgot--oh, yes: my original intention: A few years ago I was (only mildly) crazy, and spent all my time doing nothing but playing video games and adding my name to mailing lists in hopes of becoming rich. I also had symptoms and doctors. There were tests and procedures to keep track of, and they interfered with my self- administered anti-anxiety treatments. I began by being early for appointments and became so troubled that I lost track of the day and showed up at the wrong office once, a day early. Why I feel need, now, to recount this may or not be worth exploring, but no--the days of suicide are long past.
Definition: Character Clarice Starling has been subsumed by Jody Foster, who somewhere learned how southern and mountain differ. Any East Tennessee drama teacher knows a fool can fake the mountain drawl by locking down her lower jaw. That doesn't fix Scarlett O'Hara, bias of any sort, chronic unemployment, or the skin and teeth of inherited poverty, but verisimilitude is an inch in the right direction. You see: I was taught you could beat the past with increments. Now, though, I'm old. My spotted skin and all my flaws sashay across the stage sporting one-piece swimsuits, spike heels, and satin labels: Miz Bigot, Miz Hypocrite, Old Miz You Can't Get There From Here 1947. Still I sigh at new SUVs bearing heirloom Confederate flags and flaking Trump decals, knowing all reaction's a tale about chicken v egg.
Chord and Discord Sat on a Fence A man who could translate Water to Wind met a woman who only spoke Fire. He cooled her. She sparked him. He fanned, she inflamed: desire with no earthly understanding. But they slept in each other's arms like two lullabies, demanding nothing, content to share dreams. The Fortune Deck fool is born again with every breath taken and given. A body trusts that air, sun and rain will continue. It only knows living, and life will or must derange. It’s reason that's strange.
April is Poetry Month. Words fill the air like pollen and change. The senses are deranged,
and the mind plays along, making sense where it can, taking nonsense where it is needed.
I intend to enjoy it. You come, too.
to lift the singing
to carry the tree frog song
to spread spores of music
not rain. or, yes, but rain so fine
it penetrates the source of life
as dreams enter daydreams
not fog. or, yes, but falling
through its rising self, blending
music and umami
What Love Means for the Dish and the Spoon
At the concert
I could feel the bass man.
Not the rhythm
in my blood. Not
his sweat, his eyes. It was
nothing sensual, sexual, nothing
I could have imagined.
There was a hymn
we sang in church, about the wonder-
working power in the blood.
I never thought
about the ancient, natural religions
and how they grew
from blood splashed on barren rock.
The juke box is vibrating.
You bend to pick up a quarter,
and the bar goes dark. All
sound becomes tiny.
It is as if you had really run away
this time, and run so fast
you left your heart behind
like a bull rider’s dusty hat,
for some clown to rescue.
Are there beings in the universe
for whom time moves not
like a river, but a yo-yo?
And does their god
walk with them, sing and keep them
spinning on a string?