Three Sisters
They talk and they
twist memories out
from the aether, spin-
ning them over and
again into new dramas —
three-headed destiny
each one sheds
light; a spotlight
of information. They
are like one mind
thinking over the past
forming opinions,
laughing at long-
forgotten disagreements
finding new ground
to stand on
Author: Daniel Flosi
Buddhadoshā loves you.
Prejudiced
It’s lunchtime and here I am sitting in my van
parked in a grocery store parking lot, blowing my
nose in a used napkin. A napkin previously used to
blow my nose. Homemade vinaigrette sits on the dash
in hopes that the December sun is heavy enough to break
through the overcast and liquefy the coagulated coconut oil.
It won’t. And I realize that if I were sitting in my
Prius, instead of my work van, I would satisfy so many
generalizations right now; with my pony-tail, writing
poetry, drinking kombucha. Maybe I don’t need
the Prius after all. Maybe the Prius needs me.
And the high-schoolers yell at each other across
the parking lot, desperate for attention, while the stay-at-home moms sit
in their vans, just a little longer, enjoying the silence that comes
from an afternoon car-ride nap. If I listen closely,
the trafficswells become fingertips of the ocean, trying
to pull me back into Her, while the douglas-fir gently wave goodbye.
Incendiary
I’m just throwing incendiaries into the dark, to light this place up, hoping to catch a picture of what’s really going on.
Forager
I have
a secret
desire
to forage,
to spend
long hours
absorbed
by the hunt.
Searching,
through spray
of stream,
under
plump
drops
from
branches above.
To find that
knowledge
held in
the palms
of ancestors
and
buried in
trunks
of elder pine
would be
to forage
on the least
likely, but
only proven path.
Please,
don’t tell
my colleagues
or my bosses.
I won’t even tell
Google search.
Only run it
through
the processor
of my mind,
this secret
desire to
return
to the land.
Filling Space
Down an auxiliary street
in the industrial park
cars and RVs line the curb
By afternoon parking
enforcement brings a
a tow to clear out those
that are being used to sleep in.
Those being used to live a life,
to cook over dying flames.
Next morning the empty
spaces are already being filled
in with different cars, different RVs.
When I Was Twenty
I read a poem with the line,
when I was twenty,
and I wanted to start a poem,
with the line, when I was twenty. . .
until I soon realized that
when I was twenty, I wasn’t
much different as now, in
my late thirties. Still, with
the same afflictions, the
same passions, the same
arguments in my head.
Mt. Olympus is a little more
real, but the gods just as
fragmented. If I had started
that poem, it would’ve ended
the same way it began. . .
Orion
Orion, who use to be the Archer,
now the kid livin’ in the slums
shootin’ slugs
Just beyond the reach
of his glock
a spray of stars
Eyes of the partygoers;
the school kids;
the fool kids;
everyone tryin’
to get a piece.
But his momma taught him
how to aim for the throat,
and his papa showed him
how to disappear.
