jornales

for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

inner cities (a sort of versified haibun, an experiment)

 

draperies of wrinkled winds the affectations we traded for dawn kisses straining the moon

listen to the children beginning their climb on a spiral of electives we elders concocted out of broken yarn

they’ll string them together with knots we had thought as we waxed the yarn sliding them between our canines

a child bursts into a scream at birth shedding his mother’s blood-coating a slimy red he knew he did not need but by then gurgling through his veins

this evening of attrition it’s blood roiling unseen that drives him to untangle the net he knotted and wove from broken yarn those strands his mother also called blood

we watch out for when he and his siblings scramble up our limbs and bite our tongue and begin to scale the spiral to the moon

 

a tale of inner cities

…flat lining a wall

March 7, 2015 Posted by | haibun, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Road Kill (a haibun)

“Big brown eyes”, I caught the driver gush. He and an off- duty driver have been trading road kill stories. I stop breathing over perhaps a girl stunned by his brake lights. Only to find relief from the next phrases dropped on my eaves; he talks of a Bambi like deer that appeared on his headlights. Now I want to intrude into their cove though I’m no driver–I’m just a thief. And so, while my bus mates recede into their inner ears, I rise and pick up the limp fawn, and squeeze my heat, my passions, rages, regrets, hungers. The sun bursts out of and back in on the wind shield, and on eyes turned to me as on four legs, I pause by the door to get off. Behind me the driver gushes, “Big brown eyes”.

 

map of the world

only on top soil

March 6, 2015 Posted by | haibun, poetry | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment