Because publications consider work published on a website as already published, I cannot put a lot of work which is in the process of submission on this page. Sorry.
The above poem is from The Self-Evolution Spa.
Shoes
Canvassing 2018
Up and down
the valley
in a Desert
Storm of dust
the dogs
barked and yapped,
I took my
hat off a million times,
put
sunglasses in hand
near fields
of agricultural poison hell,
knocking on
doors of little hot houses
with sandy
5-broken car lawns
our skin
aging in the relentless sun
as they said
“Gracias” in the polite way
of brown people
born to other borders.
Or we stood
in front of McMansions,
the precious
water sprayed spilling to the streets,
while we
stared into video doorbell eyes,
rapped on
steel-cages security,
walking the street
mazes of the “better” burbs,
the white
male gatekeeping his wife,
saying “She won’t
want to talk to you,”
outside the
two-story foyer with five-hundred-dollars of Halloween decorations,
next to his
eighty-thousand-dollar four-wheeler lifted chromed truck with dual stacks,
not knowing
he is as trained as his barking dogs.
Blossoms and Sands
I
don’t really know this place of blossoms and sands,
red-faced
old men stepping over the chalked sidewalk slogans
of the young,
toasted
skin girls leathering the tops of their breasts
while
the pulse of the ocean caresses the rock.
Quartz
veins stand above the litter of shells
smashed
by seagulls preparing meals.
The
violent crush and thunder of the sea
seen
where the rusted iron stairway
ends
suddenly in twisted abstract
up on
the sand cliff.
I see
a woman covered head to toe in black cloth,
only
her eyes showing as she stares out
at the
paddle boarders leaving little v’s of wake,
fading
in this pacific.
I
wonder that she knows this place at all,
what
crush and thunder she has
etched
upon her from distant sands,
what
her veins hold etched; a weight upon her.
Shoes
What drips
from phone lines
round here,
the high toss lasting
until laces
rot.
Addicting
packages
arriving
daily via Amazon –
one-click
mistakes.
Workout Haiku
Weightlifter
depth-charges
changing
room below, Thump, Thump,
war noises
at the Y.
Uuuah. Ugh, Ahhhh! Be quiet,
others in the gym don’t wanna hear
your bicep orgasms.
Machine
pumped for
twenty-seven
eternities,
level seven
hell.
Spine crackles on mat,
I am ironed smooth as
a politician.
Man ignores
sign:
"no
odorized products,"
splashes
stink on face.
Contortions made easy,
I watch the girl in front bend
in yoga pants heaven.
Pussy grab
locker talk?
No, just old
men telling of
surgeries
and pains.
Cup with Che
face disassembles
on the floor
–
fragility
surprise!
Red tea
oozes
proving
that time
never gives back,
the weighty,
solid ceramic,
round,
cuddled
liquid for years
now
transformed in a bump
it flowered
open,
released
like a head
in a protest crowd
for or
against
the
imperative of the moment.
Che, Mao,
Marx,
Jesus
Christ!
Mohammed.
How many dead,
how many
more to shatter on your floors.
3rd prize Maggie H. Meyer Memorial Contest 38
My kitchen
window
looks out to
the East,
towards the
University.
In spring
the tree blossoms
snow on the
parked cars.
Once the
petal’s perfume
held my
dreams,
my cheap car
floated
on a white
sea.
Do the trees
remember?
The trees
can cite
the history
of this street;
when the
speeches slammed
into the
gears and levers,
when
soldiers marched,
and teargas
blew.
The trees
know when the street morphed,
polished
with success;
gardeners,
maids, fresh shingles and paint.
Now Teslas
and Beamer
whiten in
the trees’ spring
downfall
while the
campus campanile
stands
still, unchanged,
owning its
place even when silent.
That spire
projecting an authority
unmoved by
the boiling
youth
beneath fighting for meaning,
for their
own spot to stand tall
until they
become what they fought;
unmoved,
aged,
shelled in
granite.
Perhaps
someday they will
look out the
window,
see the
spring cascade,
the
campanile,
and wonder
about
thoughts
which blossomed and blew away.Honorable Mention Maggie H. Meyer Memorial Contest 38
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