We stand upon life
Up on a footstool
Encumbering the day, the night
Relishing peacefulness
And attempting to demolish
The unrest we endure
The footstool may teach us
To bring up the harried, tardy
Elements we face
Embrace
Deface
And each day
As each day goes by
We ask questions
Seek answers
Within the elements of love
Of listening
Of cherishing the dear
And praying to not fear the inevitable
Rather, languishing if we can
In the not foreseeable future
On the footstool
We write and re-write
Speak and re-speak
Ponder and re-ponder
The facts
The wording
The feelings
The emotions
The evocative statements
There is no perfect amplitude at times
At other times amplitude is easily achieved
And brought to the fore
Peacefully
For all to hear, see, feel, learn
The take home message is?
The feelings brought up are?
The lessons learned seem to be?
We ponder
And continue to ponder
The perfect syllables, tone, content
And hope that the best words are put forth
For us all to ponder within peace…
I watched mother breathe
in death’s sleep
living in last thoughts
I imagined she drew on
memories of her long past husband
wishing her exit would hasten
so she could face him again
heave, sigh, sputter…
I envisioned her glimpses
of children
estranged by personality differences
and realities of strong will
puff, blow, cough…
I perceived her thoughts in end stage
must be of the many pets she raised
to be obedient creatures of the lap
and free souls to run the plains
off leashes to freedom
gasp, choke, gurgle…
I felt she must dream
of the many houses she
painted
supplied
decorated
with nuances of the decades
our homes
rise, fall, breathe…
I hoped she’d have glimpses
of what she was
before a mother:
teacher of gym, swimming, hockey,
English
push, pull, struggle…
does she feel her body
ready to fly back to where it started
a mold of human flesh
ready to mesh
with the Gods of wonder?
would she wish
to turn off the machine
hasten the end note
join her master in angelic form
put it all behind now
to sleep?
the last breath came
unobserved
in the early morning hours of
hospital doom
and we then buried
dear mother
next to
dear father
We are born into this body
It may change shape
It may gain wisdom
It may stagnate
When a truth is known
We rise to the occasion
And hope such truth
Brings with it
A blessing
In the midst of the earthquake
Our bodies crawl to a safe spot
And when the shaking ends
A sigh begins and we start over again
Looking for a truth
Like the heart and mind does everyday…
Outside, a yard with weeds
Strangling the life out of real flowers
And my attempts at revision
But I side track…
Under the sheets wet with hot flashes
I live in a dream place
Changing nightmares
To night visions of sea waves
Tumbling me over and over to a new place
And I recognize the fresh me in such dream
Upon awakening I look at my flesh
See the old wearied me
And realize the alone factor
That got me to the place I am
In the first place
as a kid growing up I had a perfect bedroom
all my stuffed animals were properly aligned in the crib
all my shades were pulled down at night
to the exact same length on every window sill
school papers stacked on the desk were straight, top to bottom, left to right
clothes and scarves in the closet had schemes and streams of matched color array
the double bed blankets complimented the sheets and down bedspread to a select color-of-the-week
the books in the bookshelf rows were organized by topic and longitudinal size
when I prayed to God each night asking if my thought process was aesthetically sensible and correct
the mirror above my bureau looked at my face and said
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
I think I am a genius sometimes with the way I write and how I feel so deeply about things, but I know I’m not because I don’t know everything I’m supposed to know, and I didn’t read the classics in school or understand all about math, nor was I extremely good at playing the flute or piano, but I was a great dancer and found out later that I had good meter so I could play drums and keep a beat with a band with real musicians, but music may not always count for what makes a genius and maybe I was meant to feel that being more intellectual and less creative was the path to perfection so I tried, no, did, go to college and then graduate school, and worked real hard at being a nurse so I could prove to myself that I really was a genius, mind over matter; now I could continue to write in this vein, but what does it matter if I prove to be a genius or not for who in the end will really care, except me?
i awaken
traverse three stairs to bathroom
sun pouring in small window
the most welcoming place in house
despite sink riddled by years of plumbing neglect
i greet my face
wash it
tidy my hair with sticky spray
wrinkled fingers fluffing up grey-streaked style of today
i dress
then sit at breakfast table
with remnants of flax cereal
eat what’s there
yesterday’s meal
i start car
channel radio tunes with hillbilly accents
reminding me of climbing hills
and billy’s i took for fuck me rides
i drive
bring the paperwork
show the records
tell the story of the accident
but they don’t really want me
say injuries not substantial enough for
compensation pay or social support
(what do they know, really?)
i return home
ascend three stairs
to the sun-filled bathroom
shed my tears
atop neglected plumbing appliance
and see only the beginning of the fight to the end…
Life is a chemical reaction
between
Good breath
Bad breath
Good pussy
Bad pussy
Big dicks
Little dicks
On time for dates
Late for dates
Marriage forever
Divorce inevitable
Rock and roll
Classic symphony
Rich
Poor
Tall
Short
Big house
Little house
Living in the Hamptons
Living in Port-au-Prince
White skin
Black skin
Political muster
No muster
Time on your side
Time not on your side
Recovery
No recovery
Your choice?
Rusty Truck 