blades of the fan
like lights, dashes
on a highway, speed
by on this edge-tipped
cd, “plea for peace:
take action,” and
slightly over
the insurance,
all-state, card
red-striped, white.
musings & scribbles
i’m here
you’re there
it’s not distance,
just a stare–
you see?
you see?
not the step kind,
but i
might as well
to see
you
‘re there and i’m
here.
there is little difference between an elected politician and an election politician, save a sense of urgency.
The triumph of a writer is to look back and see the world as changed, not because of them, but because of what they’ve done.
“I have to get up
and move around. If I sit, I’ll
get up and go Psshhoo.”
Grandma gets up,
standing,
wobbles
in her small frame
and catches herself
on the frame of the door,
walks toward the counter,
grabbing
chairs, one
at a time along her way,
to see the screendoor,
the damage done, and
I feel she fell
some time earlier,
is recovering,
and she does not want
to give in or give up,
even if it means she’s
really giving herself
a chance, though
she knows if she does,
she seems weak,
even if she is
the truly
strongest woman
I’ve ever met
and she doesn’t
even know she is
yet
I cannot tell her
for she’ll just
swear and sit and say,
“No, no, no– Honestly,
no.”
such sweet apron of the sky,
these clouds, wand’ring by,
she sits
in a blue-mid, red-tipped,
“pansies,” on the chest shirt,
half-crying, half-CRYing
over the Mother, her daughter,
being so paternal, a knack
for the dramatic, and seeing
my confusion, a light introduction
of when she was the mother, her
Mother the child, grown, she
smiles, recalling the freedom, hers.
the voice of a young wind-piercer hints at seconds passing;
as though unheard, they find way from chin/neck to let known their being,
and they are, in all ways, known now.
his demeanor was of a man wrought with a madness; a madness only surpressed by the peace of simple things, such as the management of seconds, and not moments.
there is a world in front of you; there is an adventure around you; there is a world a part from you; and you just sit there, staring, reading, moving your eyes as though they were your flailing arms, but all you ever hear is the sound of cackling songwrites and bitchy clickings of this board, this 6×18.