potato chip percussion

9am we parade
down the back road
marking our way
with horns and drums and shakers
and the ridiculousity of costume
and of course
the unfurling of the jolly roger flag
to the season’s first sorghum field
to be harvested

after the sorghum-stripping explanation and
before the commencement of the stripping
i lead us in a round of exquisite knucks
wherein we sharpie-mark our gloves
and end up with gems
such as these
foxy puff
true hawk
pure spin
cool rock
blue duck
brass wolf
pink poop
slow rock
slim mango


catching sight of
shred of moon
in day sky while
reaching up
to grab the tops of towering
this is the rhythm


crisp bursty sweet of
asian pear still cool
from the walk in
chomping as i head out of the fields
and back up the road

on a hike off gallena canyon road
i once told the sequin star, looking ahead, that the year 40
was going to be about nourishment
(and something about focus and forward movement
on/in creative work)
but if things keep going as they seem to be
40 may, instead (or, in tandem)
be all about revealings

gathered on cushions and bean bags
el grupo de mujeres
with frankie on potato chip
(new york cheddar flavor) percussion
perched on spare tire
in truck-back singing
and i will sing this song
and i will raise up to the night sky
while we ramble over
gravel kicking tufts of dust up
in our wake

a warm burrito
emory calls this sandwiching
on the couch between baigz and me

like a young witch or wizard
i say
ours is a magic was so powerful
and i hadn’t learned
how to use it

a fire that swallows
a potion that implodes
a spell that casts

a mistaken curse


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