this is how my distraction
feels, like real life in a jelly;
sticky and vibrant
inside a hand-bowl
like memories seeping through
(a heathen sieve)
with strains of bells
from far away angels
reminding me
of waterfalls’ treachery
and sandman’s lechery
before I come to,
and face Tuesday
In My Woods
Tree branches are creaking,
bare with needles and pods and leaves
below, like a carpet
soft and forgiving
for heavy steps forward.
I don’t sing but listen,
the dance within has quieted
to a flutter in my belly.
I like seeing my breath in the cold-
it’s proof I’m real.
Out of sight
Not part of the sun dance
nor of the set table at dusk
I am so heavy
I sink below view
forgotten
until someone gets hungry or cold.
No songs are written for me
so I fill the quiet myself.
I am not iron or sugar
but the sweetness of Greyhound diesel
is one of my base notes
(there is something of Hitchcock,
in an unsettling aura beneath the veneer)
and if we were to dance,
I think time would seem superfluous
to all invention or words.
Dance by the light of da moon
I thought I forgot how to move freely…
but I just had to look back again,
to the night
(almost thirty years ago now!)
when we jumped off the boardwalk
and felt warm sand
beneath our toes
running until we reached cool ocean spray
-the foam shined like diamonds in moonlight
reminding me
of a highway that led to freedom;
we were suburban rebels, with little cause,
(giggling girls parading as jaded women)
she was fragile and ethereal,
drawing the world in swirls
and she watched as I became
a gyrating gypsy in the surf,
dancing to my own song
(which echoed Creedence and Floyd)
it was unequivocal magic,
dancing at the ocean’s edge
I was sixteen
and didn’t know how rare those moments are
when we touch something
beyond our sense and understanding,
past where love ends
and questions begin
to a place of acceptance
The Word Rummager 