poem for the breadline

the breadline

is a presence in the universe

that exists

at all times

it continues

whether you are there or not

like a current

like a grave

like a child's growth spurt

we simply

slip in and out of it

when it is our turn

an entity unto itself

does it have a spirit?

or spirits who guard it?

are the spirits happy when

we come

to take our places?

is our waiting

worrying

fidgeting

sighing

beautiful to them?

do we feed them?

do they comfort us?

if I knew where to find

the altar of the breadline

I would leave this poem there

with a flower from the sidewalk

the odds

every egg in this carton

is a twin

                                                how strange

two yolks

nestled

within every shell

these days

who knows the decorum

superstition

or suspicion

a wink from the cosmos

or the fingerprints

of meddlesome corporate scientists

no wonder the people have lost where to put their awe

every day I returned

to the fridge

                                            surely today will be the day

                                            the facade cracks

                                            the pattern breaks

but each new shell fractured --

twin yolks

clinging inseparable

inconvenient defiant

                                            where now, your awe?

private audience

I laughed at something you said once

only the cottonwoods witnessed

my smile into silence

I made eye contact with their fluttering leaves

and we nodded in agreement

when I die those trees will still stand

and would be pleased to tell the joke

if someone only knew to ask

but these are the moments that cease 

and fade

and none but me and the cottonwoods

will ever know

the good pleasure

of that afternoon and your words in my head and

my smile on the wind and

the mirth of that private audience to

the joy you once gave me

plan of care

I've rubbed salve on the wound

bent limbs into healing postures

swallowed pills and grudges

and polished the amulets

all that is left is

to write poems

and hope they don't turn me out to pasture

before I've finished

if I go the way of joe hill

give me one memory to relive

for the rest of the afterlife -

take me back to the country road

at dusk with a sister

songs on our lips hallelujah in the dust

and our feet casting growing twins

shadows happily lengthening

with every step home.

give me the bird songs

and hands relentlessly guilty

with the juice of mulberries or perhaps elder and

give me a half-finished hope chest

which is all my grave need ever be.

grant me all this - it's all I ever was - I'll rest easy.

shake ten new hands for every damned scissor bill -

I'll rest easy. 

notes on a girl

a girl is a paper bag

container for provisions 

you fill her with what feeds you

a girl is empty

a girl rips 

holding the weight of your

cravings

note: a girl is not a child 

children belong to god

a girl belongs to everyone 

note: a girl is not a woman

women belong to themselves

a girl belongs to the tongue that summons her

a girl is a conjuring

a girl is a beach ball

a girl works for tips

a girl is a pay phone

how many metaphors do I need to write before you understand

I am not a girl

You are why I pray for a long life

this is why you pray for a long life

god willing

in order to live days like these:

you hold me as I sleep

although the sun is high

and beckons you to other biddings

you stay

and other days of course:

you with your grandiose missives

and I with mine

high and mighty with

purpose - for a time - 

as we stride and strive

towards that which seems

oh so important

and probably is

but more for days like these:

whether you take my hand into waking

with coffee and a poem

or kiss me back to sleep, mercy

you are by my side

god willing

you are why I pray for a long life