dirt on the welcome mat

Magnetistic

Our conversations

click around magnetic corners,

attract and oppose,

the horseshoe metal slides

your sounds

over my red thought blocks,

twists and flips

the silver tips until-

snap-

our heads fold to

the horizontal,

the poles quiver

as our souls

join the elliptical current,

the inseparable invisible,

the magnetistic

meeting of minds.

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Good fortune

I am a fortune hunter.

My luck and your future

Are in my hands

If we go out to dinner.

I prefer Asian-

Chicken chow-mein,

A good stir-fry,

Or anything

Accompanied with

A little slip, a hint

Of golden cookie wealth,

Chinese blessings sent

To this fortune hunter.

an old wish

an old wish

the fur, pieces of bone

that see-saw

in what the raccoon left

when the trees get the wind up

an old wish

the deserted dirt-daubers’

crusty pipe-organ home,

hushed and hard

and threatening

an old wish

the abandoned fort

that grew mossy

and wilder than we were

steady pulse

dig,

dewclaw sharp.

battle song

on a harpsichord.

penetrate,

spoon and straw.

steady pulse

in hindered harmony.

I choked on a fossil

I choked on a fossil

In my Monday breakfast bowl.

That fundamental failure slid

From my spoon into my soul.

The artifact was floating

In the morning’s milky murk

The flaw I thought I’d buried

Was excavated, forever lurks.

Loved

Feed me to the fallen leaves

Let their curled teeth crumble

Into my skin

Until I lie leprous and loved

Until I lie devoured and decomposed (loved)

Until our dried veins are crushed together

And I join the potpourri of the forest floor.

 

Until the wind can lift

The autumn flakes of my breath and bones

And throw them like skipping stones

Over the still spaces of the world,

Leave me to the leaves

I want no more.

cajun christmas

When shopping lists

for last-minute gifts

cover my calendar

in giant tinseled clots

and stuff my head with

wrapping paper wads,

 

I close my eyes

and let my sore feet

ramble slowly

down Bourbon Street

where the warm lights

burn  all year round

and lampposts like microphones

amplify the sounds

that pave the syncopated street

in the bright surprises of holiday.

 

By the bayou,

there’s no frenzied countdown to Christmas,

just a daily,

jazzy reminder

that you don’t want to miss this

crazy, colorful life.