today is no day
of rest for weary feet, red
with sunny stories

He writes poems in the sunlight
as the smell of afternoon saunas wafts up from the beach,
left foot right foot,
running in the sun,
a conspiracy of heat and heart beats.
“Welcome to this holy calling, this circle of trust,
this pack, this war hoop,
inside we are family and face each other,
outside we face the world,
an important lesson”
A book of heretical wisdoms is percolating in the cracked spine
of blasphemous spider bellies,
there is a turning towards the kindly ones,
away from limp love sickness,
and uninhibited, unquestioning positive regard.
Blood makes noise, and forgiveness is another word for
forgetting, and surprise at another bloody betrayal.
Too serious, not enough kittens.

arms around shoulders
more kind words, smiles and kisses
perfect evenings

Two very late mornings later, I remember sunlight, green grass and an ocean of sky.

latissimus dorsi angry and clenched
like fists at the side of pleated skirts,
nails drawing arcs into palms,
sweaty and tinged red.

Flying Squid, Rug burn and a pressing need to catch up on sleep.

August has crept in.
I’m a little run down, see you tomorrow.

spider egg breakfast
and a country for old men.

He sits there remembering
auburn hair inexplicably stuck to the bed sheets after days and days
of washing on the permanent press cycle,
scabs crawling across shoulders to the tune of kitten kisses,
she used to laugh ferociously
and her lips didnt touch when she reads poems,
blue potatoes cooking in a cast iron skillet
and a bathrobe turned burka.

like little broom sticks on ice,
she won her bicycle in a curling contest,
all cardboard christmas style,
10 easy steps, instructions for constructions but no tools,
all those parts in individually labeled boxes,
so he wont forget how much and in what order,
he loves those things,
like eggs on the side walk,
or cotton candy aftershave,
egyptian rain?

now rocking chairs that bite and snatch,
clowns that catch,
and decibel turn doorbell or drum beat,
the hoof fall of miles and mile of running over road,
the same trail seen every time,
so we will not forget, so we will remember,
that breakfast, of spider eggs and sausage
and a sweat smoked bed.
—-
some things need editing, and some other things cry out for it.

—–
wearing socks in bed,
kitten yawns and no pushups
an afternoon well spent

Nothing to see here,
the eternal return and all that.
Pictures to come Wednesday.

trolling late night venues for the slow and the weak.
Just like the poem she wrote for him so very long ago,
consigned to the dust bin of vengeful harlots
and early morning sessions spent staring at the ceiling,
meandering.