Two-Step

Two-Step

 

from Homelands

a Traveling Tales of Waybackwhen book

 

What a tangled, mangled

web they weave

dancing

with the dewdrops,

mirroring universes

reflected

in each others’ eyes.

 

Hung up on the harangue,

breath catching

the sticky

sweaty stench

suffocating

beneath the spinning

twirls and dips

however harmless and halting.

 

Music

strums the heartstrings

and it triggers

something else…

primal

that which

needs to feed

waiting patiently

black widow

wearing white

hourglass

is but a mask.

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Prayers for the Order to Our Houses

After the living room shake-up

the pleading fight

to watch

“just one more show.”

The brushing of the teeth

lasted less than I care for

gummies and two Batman phonics readers

the long I and U

sounding suspiciously

like a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

 

Say it with me now.

 

After the bedroom shake-up

the pleading fight

to read

“just one more story.”

The gnashing of the teeth

lasted longer than I care for.

 

After the noodle song

which was first composed

from the front seat

during the witching hour

(expertly timed to the latest breakdown)

a tune, incorporating

long vowels of its own,

yet never mentions noodles.

 

Say it with me now.
Nah, we’ll not go into that nonsense.

 

Then come the prayers,

say them with me now:

 

We pray for Harrison

We pray for Mommy

We pray for Daddy

And we pray for baby Ida Mae

 

We pray for all of Harrison’s friends

all of Mommy and Daddy’s friends

and all of Ida Mae’s friends

 

We pray for Grammy and Bop-Bob’s house

Poppy and Julie’s house

Gumpy and NiNi’s house

And we pray for our house at North Hall

 

Last comes the freestyles:

 

Heavenly Father, thank You for this day.

We especially pray for Mommy

for NiNi…

…and Gumpy.

Yes, Harrison, Gumpy, too.

…and the 3Ds

…and George

 

…and GiGi.

How the Hummingbird Got Its Sound

The glassy red feeder is dry, but I fill it up
with my words, ink drying as quickly as liquid sugar
as it permeates upon this page, sticky,
with the sensation of saccharine and empty calories.

There is a corona about my hands as my characters waltz airlessly
through the story, their auras attaining a rose-colored hue
memories of you and I. Even bad times
shade every sentence.

Hummingbirds, zumming across the porch
to sample its sweetness, spanning
galaxies, singing space operas
with the force of their dancing wings.

PWNR of a Lonely Heart (Suffer not a Witch)

Are the planets

in their correct houses

to begin this?

Something

definitely amiss

these phases

the way you behave is

nothing short

of bi-polar, maybe baby

in a stroller

pre-pregnancy

hesitancy.

 

Giving in to these base urges,

as we write our dirges

slowly sinking

obviously

not thinking.

Beating my breast

that reeling

feeling

in my chest

Neanderthal

sloped forehead in

consternation, frustration

monomyth

and a fire in the belly.

Jelly?

 

Astrological australopithecines

can’t walk the street

without causing

wanderings, amid that fertile

crescent of a moon

a little too soon

shooting for the stars

and my prized consolation

is these constellations

as we play connect-the-dots

amid forget-me-nots

you smell of roses

and those hips

the kind that could sink ships

Helen of Troy

Mother of Pearl

giving codependency

another whirl.

Girl. Mmmm.

Labor Day of Love

I meet you at the top of the drive as you pull in.

Three hours past due, Labor Day leftovers lukewarm.

Your music blaring

glaring

but for the exception

that it’s Yanni

and I can’t help but wonder

how that would be mildly offensive

in the least.

 

We talk briefly of your weekend at the casino.

You saw him in concert,

entering through the back

where the spectators come in

playing instruments he’d had

since he was in high school.

Sixty-one now, just a few years younger

than you, you can’t imagine

how he can go on like that

three songs straight

standing on a chair.

You watched 

mere feet away from him,

you gave him a thumbs-up

and he winked in return,

continuing to play.

 

We talk of your girlfriend

(how long you’ve been together

I can’t fathom.)

She’s in the Meadows again.

It was all your fault.

You had a bad day at work.

Doing 83 in the company truck,

the police didn’t catch you,

but the higher-ups at the company did:

you’ve been written up.

Again.

Dinner was ready when you got home

she’s good like that.

You couldn’t help but bring your work home,

and be angry at her for no reason.

You yelled.

You can’t remember what you said,

but it wasn’t nice.

Tuesday, she said she was ready to go in.

Wednesday, she called the cops, and even though

she asked to go, they wouldn’t take her.

Thursday, they never came.

Friday, two staties and a local boy

picked her up. She went along willingly.

No fight left in her.

You saw her today:

she could barely keep her eyes open,

her head down the entire time,

not remembering what she had for lunch

or if she had even had it,

hands

like ice in cold, cold water

trying to revive someone,

or cold enough to take out a kidney,

or a heart, which you already had.