Play
in the underpinnings of pleasure.
Be
the strings that quietly conduct
calm
commonality.
Hold
the ecstasy of outer ranges.
Hear
the coexistence
of striving
pieces.
Stay
true to the madness ensuing.
Love
the sounds for the sounds
the days
for the moments.
To make a pie from scratch
is a labor of love
faith in what will come
of many minor elements
including self
to outdo the glory of berries alone.
I make you pie
because we have the ingredients,
(A pantry I’ve never known,
oh to taste this is such bliss,
I might melt
in a happy
spoonful
your mouth
warm
sweet
tangy
irreplaceable
each grain of flour
snowflaking
uniqueness
memsmerizing flavors
molding, delicious moments
ours to hold).
It likes to embrace and to soothe,
actions it seems to feel as a kind of give-and-take.
It knows nothing of what the world believes
of its indolence.
If deflating and casting are its nature
it doesn’t care about its nature.
It likes the sleepy weight of your head
against its gently textured skin.
It likes the silent warmth
of the loyal home body.
Its understanding is the understanding
of sugar with coffee, of letting what happens come.
A couch craves no sectional attractions
no next door love seat.
It waits for bodily impact
with fluffed pillows,
content.
It is its own stanza, complete.
Time does not tempt it
old dreams and new ones rest here alike
helping you
to much deserved
rest.
* Emulation of Jane Hirshfield’s “Buttonâ€
Oftentimes it mews
on and on
begging to not off
(making the background
unaware
of its status)
fighting some miniscule twig
(the thing you wish you did
yesterday)
messing with
the foreground focus
of what you want
to do right now.
“Turn me on,
to turn it off,â€
it chants
in digital pixels
prancing the space between your face
and the screen
making real time seem
irrelevant
(the once shaking waves on which it transmitted
sine, cosine, cosine, sine,
erased to pieces
without patterns
precise representation
invading with swiftness).
Quick, let it take you,
take you away,
escape the bombardment,
of a very long day.
If people were made of pixels, they would not be triangular.
If people were triangles, they would not be equilateral
(for if they were, they could sit in a circle of eight
and make an octagon).
Most people can’t even see where a person’s three sides lie
(that would do for me—being boxed into three,
just not steam rolled).
Periodically triangles insert themselves
into one another.
If the triangles are too well matched
you may get the full face reaction
assimilation of two sides
to the point of destruction
rhomboidal creation
codependent cubing
selfless
limiting your sides to two
that might not be yours anyway.
Alternately,
triangles make a symphony
of tinkering by collisions.
There is no give, just the plink plink
of eating each other’s varnish.
If we could instead
be made of silicone
(ah the breasts it would enhance,
lips tighten, fake permission to take in
other triangles for a moment alone.)
The substance abuse prevention and intervention counselor
will be six weeks late.
He is in the rubber room
(unrelated to kids).
He was playing tennis,
got mad,
smashed his partner over the head
with a racket—
it was proclaimed
a brain hemorrhaging rage.
Do not be alarmed,
he’ll be back soon
to discuss choices
with your first period class.
To camouflage:
1. a strong desire;
2. a survival instinct, part of evolution
straighten your hair, wear
polka dots (when popular)
go retro
on occasion.
If you find you blend too much in
do not give up,
instead panic. Forever more,
change your clothes
at least five times
before leaving the house—leaving a mess
Is the first step
In self-destructive behavior.
While out, have enough drinks
to stop thinking
about your camouflage, or lack thereof.
Do not speak passionately about your ideals
(you may make others feel bad, or you may seem insincere—
you must have a motive behind your effusiveness—
worse yet you set yourself up for failure,
people may retaliate by competing,
ratcheting up the anti,
leading you to lie about your own greatness,
or cry in a single stall bathroom).
Quick get home before you trip
on the fault in the sidewalk.
Remove your clothes,
the sheet’s camouflage will protect you.
The legitimacy of the state
Is created by the will (or consent
in the case of ten percent turnout
local elections for politicians who may or may not
be puppets) of its people,
like the color of the sea floor
is created by light and water and eyes and reflections
and refraction and particles and algae and sharks.
How strange
that anything
be uniform.
* The Levellers (the party in favor of sovereignty, equality, suffrage and tolerance) wore sea green ribbons.
Cosmetic circles
make the middle of a tree.
A slice of my core
would reveal very strange shapes.
The amorphous heart
Right next to the rib cage
Is not its progeny
(mini-mes do not exist
inside of me).
That the Prospect Park ducks return
is a wonder.
Once, in a botched attempt
at a romantic pavilion sitting
a spring bringing kissing session
derailed by the smell of rotting
drops of alcohol is molding bottles—
parties to which I would never be privy
(sheltered by roves—
the blessing of work hours)
a duck ambled by
missing its beak.
How terribly disturbing
its bared tongue
its homeless home
its vulnerability
against our protection.
* The eye color of the teal duck.