we’re paralleling each other again

sing a daily song and
dance every day
joolie says

about the small things she’s been doing
to help herself get through
funny i say we’re sort of paralleling each other again
in reference to our separate escapades

in life off the commune
from the water world:

Firefighters rescue a stranded woman on a flooded street, following heavy rainfall in Chengdu, Sichuan province, China.


this nest is never

how it is an exercise
in slow movement:
transporting the 3/4-waterfilled buckets
in the rattly  cart
over the bumps and down the declines
to bring the garden
some rain
the glow of the solar light jar lids
radiating out the sun energy they collected by day
and the endless experiments/variations
on how to fill them/use them
all the ouches from brushing hair
for the first time in perhaps ten days
this nest is never (even after brushed)
something someone can run their hands through

prairie rehab in all caps

the small brown sign on the side of the highway
that reads prairie rehab in all caps
between milemarker 188 and 189
ghost skins the person on the podcast says
referring to kkk members entering the police force
to take their mission
into their own hands
on the job
the hoo hot heeat hot sounds
a human is bound to make
as they explore barefoot
on the curved and flat rock surfaces
of the shut-ins
at the st. francis river
the poison ivy dance
that first begins as a quiet arm movement
the person in front alerting the person behind them
to the poison ivy along the way
and then, it progresses into a
scatting shoo be de bop
plus dance
as we head up and out towards the parking lot
the des ark song playing
(one of the live ones, a slower sadder one)
while the sun dog glows in parenthases
on either side of the bright light
someday you will ache like i ache honna and i sing along
to the high school anthem song
while the mimosa blooms gather
the sunsetty golden light
in their hot pink sprigs


the glimmer and bloom

on sundays terry writes then reads aloud
nothing moved but church
how the ten of us take turns
reading the seeds we’d like to plant
(including one that blooms
into a tree that warms those who need it
in the bitter winter cold)
the big multi-colored heart i draw on the wipe board
with the juicyfresh wipeboard markers
that work impressively well
before the a-frame thing
is wheeled away
dumb and beautiful i say
about fireworks
to honna as we catch the glimmer and
bloom of another display
popping and booming near the edges of the arch
as seen from the recently redone surface
of her roof


four thimbles and a patio

the mimosa tree
on flowery fire in bloom
on the corner we approach
that catches apple’s eye and how she exclaims
at its brilliance
flips and tricks apple says
about the mimosa tree she grew up with
and how she and her sisters would spend endless summers in it
thirty to forty seven i overhear one of the truck drivers
on the bus headed to st. louis say
about how many days a year
he spends at home

four thimbles and a patio honna says
and i mention how it sounds like

two turntables and a microphone
(the thimbles in reference to the petite glasses
honna and mel and jennifer and i
drink our rosê out of)
the ceiling porch scene of
patio table and my hands kneading jennifer’s feet
that honna draws/paints
at the end of the day

wild green things

the scratches mama cat leaves
when i swoop the toy pummy
(too short) past her quick and sharp claws
the message, like a bird, swooping in
as i walk through the basement kitchen:
this place is dying
how jack the jack russell and i
walking in our own states of happiness
and our shared state of happiness
down the gravel road
in the humid heat
feels like home
the salad of wild green things

darien prepared and how i go back
to try, for the first time:
milkweed pods and milkweed flowers
accompanied by the lamb’s quarters he foraged
how we howl with our laughter
at the nonsense of the if/then game
which produces various hilariousnesses
such as:
what if our souls could merge with everyone else’s souls?
then there would be a lot more moats in the world
henri tossing paper scraps to ashby the cat
and then giggle-laughing
at how he plays/bats
at each crinkly bit

sounds like they’re playing little castanets
i say of the cricket frogs clicking/croaking

around the edges of apple’s pond
that we walk our way down into
in the dark
the sky spilling its star soup
across itself
on the edge
of sleep in the wavy-walled cabin
whose floor is marked with an anarchy-A in a heart
she says i like the us
that we are becoming

construction paper cans

jennifer and i
presenting construction paper cans
of writerly whoop ass to the mercantile writer’s retreat class
of 2018
how i cannot help but yell out
farewells and take cares and we love yous
to deena who slipped quietly
out the door to her yellow car
blondebrowngray ashby hairs
floating on the air (and sticking to human limbs in the humidity)
after getting brushed with a little black hairbrush
on the greenhouse/patio