Cherries Wet in the Sun; final draft

As a youth I would climb high up in a thin-limbed tree,
bark scratching bare arms as I picked cherries,
dropped them into a bucket
and relished the wind on my face and the sunshine that warmed my skin.
These memories are now confined to a picture my mother gave me many years ago as part of a birthday gift: one photo in an album full.

But when summer downpours sucked my sister down a ditch
under and inside a thorn bush's craggy and cavernous insides
I learned not to expect worn out shoes
or tattered clothes to keep the rain out:
fungal feet swollen like monkey paws clutching pacifiers.

Parched throats need water
and arid eyeballs stare up periscopes with foggy lenses
only to see
mountain gorillas running on four legs
their knuckles skipping against stones
(instead of English they use sign language:
universal love signifies speech like bitches signify heat).

Reflections: On the Farm. (formerly Season of Cow Smells); draft #2

I walk past buildings lean empty wood
lower levels diffused with dung and dirt
these buildings 200 or more years old
painted now pale red dozens of times over,
but still hoary-marked rosette
white and red and dapple green,
and sheep sometimes for lawnmowers.

Flaky paint half-covers the corncrib
ripped-almost apart by the tides of wind and weather and seasons gone by.

Iron rings against metal triangle
and mother calls the six of us to dinner.
Family called now to meal part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many that the mind loses count.

Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine foot over foot
and many years later drank that wine.
puckered lips that soon gave way to mirth and merriment.

Volcano Thoughts; final.

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit before you can get cuisine.

Night ride I
down tree vaulted asphalt of Martin Luther King Jr Drive.
Headlights of cars passing too close flash and blur in my mini rear-view,
but my aluminum tubes, carbon-reinforced fork, and steely resolve
carry me as I ride on.
And as I ride
before me rises an artificial sunrise
ambient glow of millions of street lights,
the LED sprinkled city skyline,
and my wheels spinning rpms some sixty.
The moon casts its reflection on the rain flecked street.

Outliers of tree branches hang overhead,
to my left the Schuylkill River's riparian zone,
and mixed among the foliage and sculpted meadow-lands
wild geese and goslings'
goose droppings brown black and white
heavy scattered among the grass and on and along the pathway.

But on this night
I who choose the road also avoid
headless geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

Fist a Flying; final.

I step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes
splotch covered canvas
smashed mouth and I'm shaken all my body through
falling backward
bouncing off the ropes
g-forces whipping sweat off my face
like a dog shaking off water after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

I turn and face a battle royal where everyone's against me.
Eyes lean forward my mind leans backward
and I remember a time when I saw the finish line
a mirage rising murky on the highway,
and I drink deep from a dream-works spigot
fade in and out
come round about
hot tub thermostat shoots to the moon
120 degrees
so hot it burns.

Volcano Thoughts; draft #4

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit before you get cuisine.

Night ride I
down tree vaulted asphalt
Martin Luther King Jr Drive.
Headlights flash and blur in my mini rear-view
cars passing too close,
but my aluminum tubes, carbon-reinforced fork, and steely resolve
carry me as I ride on,
the glow of city lights and the LED sprinkled city skyline
rising to the South ahead of me and to the left,
wheels spinning some sixty rpms
on this river side ride
of quiet empty miles:
moon casts reflections on the rain flecked street;
forest hangs overhead;
and to my left mixed among the damp thirst for hunger of foliage
upon the Schuylkill river's riparian zone
wild geese and goslings
and goose droppings brown black and white,
piled high on and along the grass and pathway.
And I who choose the road avoid
mutilated rotting geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

Mynd's Letter; draft #4

In mynd's eye there's a letter I mean to send
but since heaven forfeits whoever it forbids
and writing is not a sin,
this bloody letter
iron rich as the rise of society,
is mailed if in word alone is mailed.

Change the rules and dress up names
maim commonality or at least make lame
and after wringing capital paragraphs to thunderous applause
we all clap and jingle our change.

Down the lane
the dapper dressed walk in unison swinging their canes
dipping quills in pitch black ink wells.
Splendor's reckoning comes as a heart wind terrible to behold
and we cease to feel the wisps of wind that sometimes soft
dance across your face on a hot summer's day.

Mixing feelings with volcano thoughts; draft #3

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit crap before you get cuisine.

Night ride I
down tree vaulted asphalt of Martin Luther King Jr Drive.
Headlights flash and blur in my mini rear-view
cars passing too close,
but my aluminum tubes, carbon reinforced fork, and steely resolve
keep my company close as I ride on,
wheels spinning some sixty rpms on this river side ride
empty miles
the moon casting reflections in the rain flecked street
and the forest hanging overhead to the right
while on the left
mixed among the damp thirsted hunger of foliage upon the riparian zone
and the wild
geese and goslings and goose shit piling high on and along the grass and pathway:
but I who choose the road avoid gutted
mutilated rotting geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

Untitled; rough draft

Trouble seen but not believed
algae green water-tossed in the oceans
here at home the thermostat turns to 68
and the winter season begins.

Looks you – in the eye
of tiger black and orange lamé
better than warm showers polish morning is wax
and the winter season begins.