Three Sisters

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

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.

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.

Red Snapper and a Little Olive Oil

They gave you
a red-snapper,
one machinist says
to another,
because it’s
the most common type
of snapper.

Now, all you need to do
is season it
with a little salt
and pepper, paprika,
and lemon and bake it.
I would
bake it in the oven.

A little olive oil?
Yes! a little olive oil
is good.