Śūnyatā

 Sunya, reaching for your hand is like trying to recall a dream I haven't had yet,

but still you wait in the tattered chair

in the water-damaged bow-wooded house

where the bulldozers come to cry.

They shove up great golden cities out of bricks and candy wrappers

while you, Sunya, fanged monster, 

queen of the canopy, collector of 

sunflower sunshine in a woven shoe,

wait with that faintly mocking smile I sail inside of.

Sunya sister of Shiva, cigarette punk from down the block,

are you a tin can tied to the tail of the wheeling Heavens,

or Love itself

in a saffron sari,

taking my bones out with a kiss just to show your quick hand

to catch the  ball we both sway upon, under stars, in the ether, or nowhere at all?

Sunya, you are a man in the morning, a woman in the evening, 

a dolphin all afternoon

and I stand in the surf that doesn't exist

in my flesh that appears and disappears

dealing with a world that seems to be but isn't,

and wait for Sunya, summer plum winter branch marigold kat in an open window.

_________

for Dverse Poetics "the four elements." 

music: Mint Royale "From Rusholme With Love." Just try not to dance to it!

Hurt Bird

 

There it was, a hurt bird

panting and skittering in circles

on the grass by the berm.

Feeling badly for it, I reached out,

tried to pick it up and help it if I could,

to cradle it and quiet its thrashing about

but it buried its beak in my palm,

a short sharp angry stab

that brought blood spreading across my hand.

I threw it down, said god damn bird!

but immediately felt my heart shrink in horror

and I bent over it, sick over its hurt.

The bird, on its side gasping,

its upward eye a mix of panic and hate,

beheld my gaping face as the last thing

it would ever see, its every

agony saying damn your help and damn your pity,

wishing only to die there by the berm without this hovering intermediary.

_______

for Sunday Muse #223. 

Music: "Something" by Julien Baker

Gatwick

 

Gatwick's in league with the devil

'flight delayed", she'll see you grovel.

Things left in small rooms upstairs

she lets reanimate there

to suck your soul, sour your nerves

turn your heart as cold as hers.

Gatwick's in league with the devil

"flight delayed", she'll see you grovel.

_________

for Dverse Poetry Form: Octelle. 

artwork by Jacqueline Deleon

music: Nick Drake "Three Hours"

Phaleron

At Cassie's Diner,

the eggs are never over and rarely easy.

Your waitress may be falling in love with you,

or with your husband, or with the hard "R" when you say ,

"I must have left my bag in the car."

She may be in love with you, or

you only think she is.

She may be unavailable, or not even listening as you order. 

Every plate is a surprise

balanced on her arm like row of flat Earths,

the coffees steaming like new planets

And one of them has your name on it.

The napkins open to exactly the right passage,

the one you thought you'd never find,

Written by Athenian scribes in shimmering antiquity.

Aren't you glad you came?

(That was unexpected, yeah?)

Cassie's Diner is conveniently located

at the intersection of Eros and Morpheus,

open 24 hours, accessible by accident, vegan-friendly, 

unpredictable buffet, situated on a slight incline, nice view of the bay.

_______

For Dverse Poetics: "Poetics at the restaurant."

image at top is Charlotte Gainsbourg.

Trill

 

The planet itself sways--

every sailor and starfish knows this.

It was my mother who was stillborn, 

and I have ever since 

searched for a heart beat to lay my ear to.

Language seduced me in a railroad car,

a constant leaving, one destination after another,

all the way to the horizon.

All my devotion has bought me is these bowling ball souvenirs,

these anvils in interesting rows.

But music! Even urchins carry flutes,

cows in fields wear bells, and Tartini's Devil left him a trill.

Music has been mercy,

from Janis's blue sandpaper

to Vivaldi's honey-hive violin,

I lay my ear on my own heart and hear the mermaids sing.

_______

For Sunday Muse #222. 

In August

 In August, the clouds are one-winged birds

collected in a shadow box by boastful head-injured dwarf gods.

They skitter, describing ceaseless circles

as the dwarf gods goad them to fly as they long to.

Storms are the tempers of the shadow box birds.

In August, old men dream of young women 

and young women find themselves shriveled and standing on hard clay.

Everyone is given a shovel and a stethoscope

to listen for thalidomide demons in love with the shadow box birds.

Cicadas amplify the grinding of maddened demons.

In August, weather pattern doctors urge 

tarot card mothers to sleep with bellies full of shadow box birds.

demon doulas with asters in their teeth

sicken gravity with odd fevers and the whole world sways.

Crickets are half birds in the ears of gods, still able to sing, ice pick righteous.

________

for Dverse Poetics "August" hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.

Mykonos

 Sugar plum, fairy

who kindly took me in,

you looked like one of those

white buildings on Mykonos

clean as a tide

in an open shirt.

Me, just a ragamuffin then, but

you treated me like turquoise and silver,

a small sparkling thing.

I loved your love of Gato Barbieri

and the notion

that I was worth the introduction.

Sugar pea, you knew me better

than I knew myself,

didn't you?

That soothing shade of Greek blue is called

Ambiguous,

and it's lovely, like early morning

or an offered hand

in a pearly cuff.

______

for Dverse Poetics "double dipper." 

I used Sugar Plum.