C

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C comes to close,
chimes, “Oh! Hello,”
and commences
to catch water,

waiting for the ferry,
then the crossing,
and the long cruise
back to the city.

A bald eagle floats,
driftwood across the cant
tilt and lilt of the wharf:
tackle shops and taverns.

“Sure,” C says, though
sounds disappointed,
cooped up in Coupeville
open mouthed, chip

on shoulder shooting pool:
“7 ball, side pocket,”
but clips the cue
ball curling.

“A difficult shape,
a hard cut,
to make sense of,”
C says, scanning
sound’s mirror,
ceiling reflecting cold water.

Another crew of sailors
occupies the tavern,
drinking to a mate’s
re-upping:
“Here’s to Carl,”
amidst a cheer
and a clap.

C looks around,
fails to see
any circular irony.

Punk Villanelle

but we really do careTele
stars emerge crash & collide
with the click of the snare

what the lyrics say we can’t hear
lufu songs behind us hide
but we do really care

what’s yr name the color of yr hair
right this way come inside
with the snack of the snare

saw you out at the county fairNo Thru Access
no thru access past the tide
blue mudflats of real care

have so much no need to share
in white spotlight gone walleyed
with Apollinaire’s uncanny stare

top of wheel a kiss & a prayer
what we missed we never cried
but we really do really care
with the tears of the snare

Bonus Bootleg Lines:

off yr rocker no way no scareText
all these lines eventually elide
with the test of the snare

with Apollinaire’s polished care
where strings in cushions hide
& release the strained snare

The Sneeze

The sneeze loosens paper odors in the cubicles,Self Portrait
suggests days of paper dust peppering the air,
stops the manager stoned in his excel trail
near the closet where the sneeze built its lair.

Surprise! A shredder confetti party! Paper! Ah!
Shoeless clerks dance out of their chairs.
“I’m not sure about this,” the manager demurs,
“Sneezes this robust should be curtailed.”

In a paperless wireless future, clerks recall
the daze of the sneeze: vinyl nostalgias,
sheer nylons and frigate wing tips, stairs,
grey metal desks, smokes and perfumes.

Cadmean Victory

They do not want for something to sayTree at top of park.
They run around and play all day
Syllabicating back and forth
No one asks what another is worth

At night they climb trees to sleep
They dream of mouths of lips and teeth
And breath of a land where speech
Is silly and fluid and free

Having no bowels they don’t see
The lithe ape thinking in a tree
Who would trap them in a man
And call himself can

Abaft the Blues Fest

Red-orange earworms admonish taptoo! fashion,
now clear the drum is an old, beat suitcase
rigged with foot pedal, and, too, there they are,
tin bells on his curled toes, as literal as pencil lead,
as calloused as an oak pew hymnal.

Lavender fresh, she sang at Hop’s Hootenanny,
sipped mint juleps from a food cart pulled
by a calico cat in zither shade by a stream
under an old willow, but the bell pull string broke
under the weight of his monolog cartogram.

On top of it, academic aristocracy whizzed
by dressed in pressed berets and scholarly drafts -
what difference they followed the leader or not?
Collectors yodeled passwords, unlocking a juke joint,
and raspberry chords popped up oily fishes.

No need now to call placid plumber, three blue
hydrangeas wilting in bath humid heat,
down by the river, down by the wash,
down by the singing and the top posh posts
written with plush plumes of lacks and noods.

Safe sound spillway falls, noise overflows,
ears carp and loud lips cop bad press,
but dolce glissando this urgently close still
makes some sense, and at the first aid tent
they polish their moonstone eyes.

Paste fast food milk turns cast iron sour,
and butter curdles her chlorine-yellow hair
as they stuff bitter newspapers with trust,
dogpaddling thru pull duck old cobwebs,
but empty, golden juke boxes near finish him.

On Line 15 on the way back home, the night
quietly spinning, the river sparkling crinkly
as the bus crosses the Hawthorne Bridge,
a lone accordion pulls and lulls images only
understood asleep or listening to music.

Sidewalk Chalk Pastel with Haiku

Over at Miriam’s Wellan invitation to a haiku. And why not? As it happened, I was working on a post of pics that lacked captions, not that they needed any, but a bit of word garnish on a gallery augments the gadzooks. The haiku, posted on Miriam’s site, came in walking stride:

a            long            old            side            walk

a            child’s            pastel            chalk            drawing

blue             orange            bird             feathers

Oh blue bird’s posit
bald caw clears scald orange glory
down green wave evening.

Oh quick bird’s message
clear and cold sweet morning wake
again post evening.

Oh to be a bird
who sings each morning sunup
and feathers sundown.

Oh drifted droop bird
lands on hand chalk covered walk
feather dust bath wash.

Oh rabbit molt moon
rises on sun’s dwilting back
enough for one day.

Oh quiet streetlamp moon
paper birds rise up to you
words fall to sidewalk.

Oh artist angel
dance brushes painterly dust
sidewalk chalk drawing.

And don’t forget to check out Miriam’s Well.