purple-sweet

in the dream
i was pulling weeds from my body
(same weeds i’ve been pulling in waking life
[crabgrass, clover, purselain]
that in moist soil
are easily plucked and make a satisfying tear and pop
[cultivating food is a form of colonialism])
i pluck most of them effortlessly
except the one in my armpit
its roots lodged/entangled in a mass
certainly cancerous

_______

darien stirring up a quart jar
of home-concocted electrolyte mix
while joseph flips pancakes
(too much oil he says
no way i respond)
as i race to eat my favorite sweet/savory
if-i-were-to-go-out-for-breakfast-at-a-diner combo
(pancake with maple syrup, pecans and cinnamon/cardamom/nutmeg
and a fried egg, over-easy, on the side)
striving for timeliness for our 8:30 work party

_______

branch over granola’s grave
dangling ripening fruits (mulberries)
along its arc
i pluck – sucking purple sweet

_______

iowa city return address
on a handmade paper envelope
inside a flock of storks/gulls
and tiny handwriting
perfect as a printmaker’s
as this summer unfurls before me you write
i’m working on being in the present
feeling the sun as i freckle farm

_______

on the butcher block
set out with phoenix’s (homemade pasta and farmer’s cheese) lasagna
a stainless steel bowl filled with the seasons first sugar snap peas

_______

when tyler says patch adams talking about the
school for designing a society in urbana
i tell him that of course it makes me think of tom hanks
(you mean robin williams he asks)
as we move pummies with pitchforks
from pile to cart to mini-pile and into the paths along
the lookfar tomato beds (and melons/squash)

_______

three-on-three basketball street game
(by street, i mean rock road
[which means gravel, but bigger than gravel]
with a lot of the rock scraped/shoveled
in piles off to the side)
mica with a headband tied on from the scrap box
trish with a #27 masking-taped onto her tank top
dante in bare feet
emory in his michael jordan jersey

bobbie on the sidelines with wine in a jar calling out
nice pass when i go up for a basket at the side of the hoop
and end up sending it over into phoenix’s hands

not complete without the line up afterwords where we
hi-five and good game each other
nor the fetching and spooning into our mouths of the home-made ice cream
(cake batter flavor)

 

 

 

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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