Poems July 2017

The flowers - well, really you'd call them weeds - flowed out from the door and across the imaginary meadow. On days when they were long they'd move like an ocean under the eye of the breeze. On dry days they'd crack, brittle and broken, a poor man's Sahara. In winter you could stand on the porch and it was as if the sun imaginary was the thinning scalp of an old woman, the snow barely punctuated by ghostly hairs.

Stand on that porch, look over that imaginary meadow, ask yourself the question: who will be coming over that meadow for you? Who won't ever come over that meadow for you? Who will walk about halfway across, and then abandon their effort as the wind paws their clothes and bites at their lips and nose. Who runs in circles as if writing words in the tall weeds spreading out from the porch

monica, you make seventy just another number
though your old bones... perhaps there's enough cesium to bring down the empire of you
but for now your glasses are the bridge of the battleship on the prow of your nose
the great grey fleet
encircle the world

This woman
pale with orange hair
floated outside the bathroom window:

"I'm peeing here, you know?!"

"Come out before the rain comes. This is the last night on earth."

She was floating. No strings or CGI. Floating. Like a leaf in an updraft but without the chaos.

"Come out! The rain is minutes away. This is your last chance!

"I'm in my underpants."

She was in a nightgown and gave me a blank look. Her hair started rising up, from the ends to the roots, each strand maybe the contrail behind a tiny flying bug.

"Come! Come now! It's almost too late!"

I guess I started to push up the window, I don't know. Maybe I was opening the screen when a drop of water hit the bridge of her nose and trickled down the side towards the corner of her mouth.

"Ah... it's too late."

The rain picked up tempo, pelting her with drops. Dissolving her.

She floated there, staring at me, until I was a guy in his underpants staring out a window, staring at rain. Thinking about all that I needed to do tomorrow, things on a worthless todo list

I thought to myself as I climbed into bed, hearing the rain, and electric fan with a wobble at the foot of the bed. Asthma medication at the head. Typing this out on an iPhone.

What if I poured myself into a tight black Lululemon and then walked the dog? What would people think?

Laugh laugh ridiculous! Does he not know who he is??? He needs to hang a mirror by the front door, or near the dog's dish!

I don't know who I am anymore. Maybe I am a 34 year-old mother of two getting in shape after the last baby. Maybe I'm a well dressed older Jewish guy. Maybe I'm young, black and dredded. Maybe I want to be.

Maybe I'm walking down a hall, like in a hotel. Maybe there's a window at the end of it. Maybe a pale woman with orange hair is floating just beyond the glass. Maybe I'll open the window to jump out expecting to be caught. Maybe there are still doors open to me in the hallway.

Maybe there's not even a dog and what there is... is a parking lot near a train yard.

An old guy

Garden party

Enough alcohol to make everyone a lying clever philosopher

Kid, someday you'll be lucky enough to be old enough to not give a shit what people think. A knowing laugh. Supercilious?

A girl walked up just then with a fucking SICK body

He turned and introduced himself, ignoring us, his left hand with its missing fingers drifting up behind his back like a guilty child that knows the drill