Anachronism

The heart flutters
as hot as
it was
back in junior high
at the sight and curve
of her
thigh

It wants to sit
in some dark corner
of a grungy
bar
overrun with sports
screens
and shout
at her
anything that comes
up

But this is not the time
of life to be chasing
confused and intoxicated
infatuation
they say

That was then
this is
time to
sit back to
comb serenity
from the tangled
mess
of days of lust long gone

You see it there
mirage
so real you could drink it

On whom is this joke
this surprise
short circuit?
this taste of love
so sweet you might choke on it?

Lotus Blossom

Not white exactly

But something between
Fluorescent green
And mustard
Yellow

It sits there
Growling
Formula One
Through and through
While its owner
Flirts with the barista

Each wheel has its
Own tire size
One way
No rotating to save
Money or time

Why he leaves it
Running
I don't
Know

Maybe he wants me
To jump in and drive
Away
To be off on a surprise
Visit
To the here and now
A place I never go

Maybe it never turns
Off
But is always
Watching

It doesn't
Flinch
When a passing
Raven
Shits
On the
Hood

Its shadow
Passing through
The strip mall
Like a ghost

The owner
Rubs out the fresh
Deposit
With his silk sleeve
And all is again
And forever
Right with this
World

On Turning Sixty

The decade sounds ominous
Now "S"s as the "F"s
Recede in the rear view mirror

A curdling unease
Vague notions of hobbling
Canes, vanished virility

Creaky joints crimped digestion
And "sir" as the cashier
Rings up milk of magnesia

The mile marker slides
By the window of this
Passing train

A shade lowers a bit
To hide the harsh light

Tell me something
I don't know
That days have numbers

That fall and rise
The price set by how
They are spent

Short supply
Infuses illusion
With clarity

The forelock of time
Waits to be plucked
Love to be spoken

I am learning to
Take a deeper
Breath

A welcome shock
To the System

A sweet taste
Of creosote
Of hot chiles

Work

At the end of the day
At the end of a life
When the heavy lifting
Of providing
Is done
The real work remains

Beneath the clutter
Of complaint
Insult
And sting of being
Overlooked targeted misunderstood
You see it is not
About deserving or fair or redemption

You give up licking old wounds

You no longer wait to be saved
But begin the work of resurrecting yourself

You sharpen your gaze
And do not look away

You want your soul
More than fame or love or comfort

You remember the assignment given at birth

Your work is to desire that which endures
To step forward
With every tool
You have crafted from the stones
Of your questions
To meet the fear
Unlock the gate
The obstacle blocking you from
Your joy
Your grief
The thrill of your
Divine inheritance 

Invocation (A Recipe)

List of Ingredients:

A ceramic mug
Filled with black coffee
A shot of espresso diffusing into the mix
Clock not yet cracking the whip
Of work
Thoughts not yet beholden to the business
Of running the world
On time

Sacred baseball cap set
Exactly right
According to Scripture
Phone tuned to confidential signal
Moment carved and stolen
From stone

An invitation
Sent
Through the slot aligned
By tumblers ordered to attention
Combination spun
A vault door  that swings open

Instructions:

When Promise sits there
A come hither
Smirk on her lips
Stir in your passion
While you can
Before she gets away

You will follow her because
She is burnt umber
Rotting leaves
The scent of gun powder
Pheasant shit mixed with
Plucked feathers

Give her
A broach
Wrapped in gold
Warm her by your fire
Hold her
Say yes
Lose yourself
Cut fear from the edges
Discard searching
And
Confusion

Open and pour in
Sweetness
Cry
Run ripe memory over the grater
Unlock your mind's tool shed
Simmer things you cannot
Throw away
Any more than you can operate without
Blood

Sling words down
Into a well
They will ricochet off the stone walls
Before splashing in the cold
Subterranean sea

Saute a moment
To write
Just write
No matter who gives a good
Goddamn

Salt liberally the song that wafts up out of the darkness
Separate the words that don't matter
Pull out the invocation

Surround the chords with
The melancholy notes
That turn the key
Open the valve

Let the grief drain
Free now
Down a river
Of light and
Smoke

Bees

They say the bees are in trouble

That flowers may soon be

Absent when attendance

On Earth is taken

That the red of tomatoes

The buxom purple of eggplants

The stain of boysenberry

Thimbleberry blackberry red rasping berries

Have numbered days

They say the bees are

Hungry lonely sick and

That they no longer dance.

We have given them too much of what

They don’t want

Taken away what little they need.

The handmaids of sex

The midwives of ovaries

The acolytes of nectar

Magic dust

Secret errands

Blossoming trysts

Serving pleasure to plants

Fleshy fruits to palates

It would be infinitely lonelier without

The bees the berries the flowers all that

Fertility

For now

A tree waits

Petals a riot of silken seduction

Open receptive engorged

Only for the lover 

The perfect lover

Years

Sawdust swirls around us

Like January snow

As the chain snarls

Its way through

Blow-down pine

The muffler’s hot breath

Melts a golden bead of sap

That drips onto the singing

Blade 

That chews through

Decades.

Rings mark the swings

Of seasons

Cutting reveals

Years

Infused with memory

Running backwards

The night on a Mexican bus

When I took your hand.

Through the year I found you

And loved you on this

Mountain

Moon, silken thighs

A lion wailed below us

In the canyon.

When we cut the pieces

To fireplace size

You hold the squirrely

Log by broken branch pegs

Like hands on a clock

Locked in place

The second hand

Pauses at noon

Freezes there in memory

Your hands are small in my gloves

Inches from the hungry teeth

As they devour again and again

The clock resumes

Your eyes still bright

Set in wrinkles

Soon in winter the

Years will rise up the chimney

Set free by the dutiful wind.