Mother Lode

I squat like a miner;

sift through rubble,

barefoot in Levis.

Memories swirl the pan ―

most of them look the same;

unfossilized, too liquid to keep.

Ruby lips. The American dream. 

Now and then a sparkle ― a nugget

looks up at me with human eyes.  

Clementine!  Can't take everything, darling.

Just a few. I pack it neatly in the box

labeled "Initial Boom".

Souvenirs line up like herring.

Gradually decompose,

bloom sweet and pungent;

fertilize a second chance ―
my destiny.

tk/July 2015


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Primavera

Splendid cocoon.

I no longer live at home;

have taken up residence in my room

like a semi-detached adolescent.

Sleep is supposed to let the demons out.

I compose letters with doodles in the margins.

No need to replace the bulb in the bedside lamp.

I have developed night vision.

I believe in scenery, look out the window. 

Monkey swing branch to branch in the maple. 

Steal from the sleeping cap peddler.

Throw down my hat.  Sweat.

Turn my pillow, search for the cool side.

Pace around like waiting for a biopsy.

Accentuate my hard R's.  Then roll them.

I am ready for Carnegie Hall.

I pray to the electric fan.

Belt it.  Sounds like yodeling.

My hair blows out in a radiant halo,

grows long enough to cover my Venus bits.

Time stands still like I am twelve.

I rise one last time from the open mattress.  

Dust bunnies pollinate the air.
My wings visceral and lacy in the dark.

tk/May 2015

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In the Beginning

I sleep two time zones,

wake in the small day between.

Darkness on the face.

No rest on the seventh.

The dustbin lid cracks down

on kitchen dreams.  Ashtray speaks

with gently-hammered elbows

and knees.

Only a blue-lit kettle

shines through the deep. 

Everything is transformed,

microwaveable.

I thank the god of oven mitts;

my fingers free to make

evening and morning,

and it is good.

At last we sleep

on the crumb-strewn floor. 

Evolved.  Immortal.
Creation under my nails.

tk/January 2015


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