Between Breaths

wind blows up the alley
dried, fallen, white petals sound like a rain-stick on the pavement
that soft liquid sound
liquidity in the sky

I dreamt of gardens
lie back
the plots of irises, lilac by the Woman’s College
real name on the sign

breathe
close, toughing
breathe

a hollowed out cactus
dried and pins inside
tip it over
listen for the beads

calling rain
grating against dry pavement and beat-up cars
looking in windows
looking in the moments between footsteps and on

the light is blue this afternoon
I kicked through sand littering the street
and listened to the fallen petal in the alley
blowing around and away from me

breathe
the wind smells of rain
breathe
the air changes softly, distinctly
empty alley off the street

and it rains.






Motivation is a funny thing. Here I haven't written a single word in weeks, since April I think, and tonight a couple of poems. And I'm tired and thinking about sleep and five hours of work tomorrow, not to mention two more weeks of school and then finals. I'm ready to be done. Montana will be a break, but I'm not fully looking forward to it. I'm simply tired and that's all.

Machine

this machine does not give change so give it up
the empty apathy of sitting by a window watching the storm role in
given up on the fat swelling up the salty seaside daily

empty megaphone on the lawn and lying on the beach in Mexico
the sand-footed vendors prancing palm frond t-shirts there
lace up and walk out on the street
storm clouds on the window sill
the pocket book left underneath the feet pressed flat
that’s my life when my life your life is money
and picture imprinted IDs
but wha’s the name?

this machine splits open at the sides
feed it dollar bills slowly so it can eat
and grow
and prosper
blocking out all the others
chocolate breath but tightly bent to fit a certain model
Smith or Marx or Keynes
maybe Prince
a prince inside the leaves folding downward
and there are ghosts in this parade
small and large
running into the ground

this machine kills fascists and poets and the leftwing media bought out by corporate interests
feed us the news so we can eat the dull comfort of it

this machine this black box
our answers
the box was black in “The Lottery”
and all that came out was a name

Spring Has Sprung

dressed up trees bloom and welcome the sun
a bit of frost nipping but now
now the swallows song
fast, incomprehensively joyous
water falling on brick paths look up and off he’s gone

cut grass and grass stains on the plotted pathways
that everyone just seems to stick to
a habit
habitually walking the same way
saves time

and the water gardens flow
the simple glades, Diana
and lay beneath sky and bell towers building
copper-coated columns, dust
the workmen climb the solid sky

just dreaming of a scene to Dylan
in the quiet afternoons
brimming blossoms full
landing softly on shoulders feeling bare
though clothed in soft conformance