Stars

 When I was just an olive sparrow living rootless in Texas,

I met Kris Kristofferson and some hay-blond woman with a kind face. I asked Kris, "Are you going to Willie's picnic?' and in that train engine rumble of his he laughed and said, "Hell, I see Willie at his house!" I never saw Kris Kristofferson again after that, except once, last night, around 3 a.m., in a cemetery just off Woodward Avenue. I asked him, "Where's Rita?" He said, "Oh, I couldn't rightly say, but wherever she's at I expect she's singin' " We sat together on a marker for Howard Greenbriar, husband and father, our beers at our feet, brown glass sweating in the grass, their gold-and-yellow labels giving them the appearance of votive candles. Looking up, I said, "I can't see the stars." Kris told me, "That's the lights, babe. We're like belled cats lookin' for angels." It was bright when I woke up. I wondered what happened to the hay-blond woman with the kind face. Her hair wasn't dark like Rita's or mine or turning gray like Rita's or mine. A friend texted, asking if I was going to the Kristofferson show that night. I texted back "Hell, I see Kris at his house!" But the truth is, I haven't seen a star for a very long time.

_______________

The part about meeting Kris Kristofferson in the first part of this poem is true. Or maybe it was just some rando who looked and sounded exactly like him.

Verse/Us

 

Verse I loved you like window glass loves morning light. Cats envied me my easy silence and singularity of heart. Perverse If I found you dying by the roadside, my eyes would be as blank as china plates and my silence entire. Verse I wrote a bloom of poems for you an origami of your face, your voice, your scent. My love reshaped into rows of you, riots of you, and every shape of you. Perverse Pearls before swine is strange jewelry. A thing is worth what it's worth to the one who receives it, so receive my scorn, my bitter spade, and these branches broken. Verse Look, the moon, your twin and avatar. I blazed for you, and shed light with every loving gesture which you reflected back, quarter-strength, and only in the dark.

Mount Pinatubo

 There's a thing, some sort of

eruption

on my skin

and it

vibrates

 

every time the autobus bounces

and the chickens flutter

as if, dreaming, they are back in their shells

desiring

rebirth

 

as eagles or raptors or some undreamt-of symbol

rising

through the roof of the autobus.

 

There is a blemish,

some sort of eruption

on my skin and boiling beneath Mount Pinatubo.

 

The day is hot,

and I am dizzy,

as we go around the curve

on this mountainside which has no

guard rails

and never did.

Something Borrowed, Something Blue

 

Santorini Island

Don't talk to me about made-up things,

someday things,

not now. 

I am only half here.

Every time I close my eyes,

I am back in Texas,

twenty-three again,

and looking for a dump I can afford.

You are talking,

but I am thinking

about Santorini Island, a place I have never been,

where the domes and railings

are the same bright blue

as the sea.

Then I am back in Texas again,

the landlord waving his hand,

saying yes, yes,

that can be cleaned/fixed/hauled away

and do I have the deposit and

next month's rent?

I wake again and there you are,

still talking, holding a bible like an admonition

and rattling on about forgiveness.

I wish my dog were here,

He never spoke but was a kind of Jesus.

all love and no faking it. 

In Texas I was hoping he would be okay

in the new dump, 

Downstairs was a tired blonde with a young son

and upstairs a hypochondriacal Mexicana

and an older gay man in a linen suit--

my new family.

I will die soon,

you can have my cutlery and framed art

if you go away right now.

Made-up things, someday things 

bore me, cause me pain. Let me drift

into a grove of Mesquite trees

somewhere in the Texas hill country,

or down a stone walk to a table by the sea

on Santorini Island, where I have never been,

where the domes and doorframes are that marvelous bright blue.

My dog will be there again

after all of this time and searching

like a sentinel

or a Maître d, 

as dependable and fine as the arc of the sun in June. 

Texas bluebonnets under a mesquite tree

-----------------------------

For Dora's Something Borrowed Something Blue at Dverse. Poetics

Blues & Calicos

 Exes should have to wear a bell

like blues and calicos, so us birds can fly.

But all right, I'll handicraft a smile,

me in the role of a civilized adult when we 

happen to cross paths.

Raise a glass to the past--

vinegar was wine once,

so drink up,

you little arched-back pussycat.

Baseball

 He wore a felt hat

for his early morning beach walk-- an old man as regular in his habits as any tide. He moved slowly, carefully, in incongruous leather shoes under an anvil sky. Later, the oddest thing-- he sat on the sand as if resting, but his shoes were gone and he was as dead. His felt hat had fallen nearby cockeyed, between a cracked shell and a dead fish with a blackened hole in the crown about the size of a cold drink coaster or a baseball.

The Days Left Behind

I asked the mourning dove

where to find the days left behind. 

"In the dew," she replied.

"In the wild grass

 on the slope beside the river.

Hurry," she warned. "Winter already whispers."

I asked the vulture

where to find the days left behind.

"In the fire pit," he replied.

"In the ashes 

full of hands and faces.

Go slowly," he warned. "They will wait."

I asked the falcon

where to find the days left behind.

"In my nest," she replied.

"I used them

for my children, bald and bottomless.

Go now," she warned. "My talons are teachers."

I asked the gentle mourning dove.

I asked the grim vulture,

but the lesson lay

at the feet of the falcon

in a slurry of time, need, and blood.