mimosa

she tells me my unsatisfied yearning might not belong rightfully to me.

maybe it's the neighbor, across the creek, shoving twigs and newspaper,

attempting to start the fire, flinging on more gasoline from a small red tank,

cursing and hoping that the flames sustain themselves this time.

I'm breathing in last sunday's silk mimosa tree.

I'm not crossing my fingers, but I am rubbing my own neck,

leaving traces of pink, yellow, green.

I choose this world, thank you

My hands full, I left the fields

with the stem of a four-leaf clover

between my top and bottom teeth.

This is how to carry luck.

Don't fill buckets full,

boxes, pockets, your palms.

Rather, fill your bags with

zucchinis, raspberries, beetles

and birds. Collect leaves and

histories in your turned over hat.

Suck on the delicate branches of fate.

Chew, methodically, expectation, like

bubble gum, with bubble gum.

Open your arms, here, some matter.

Put ideals and ideas in the spaces between

the woven wood of your basket full of pears

nonsense, no

This time, I stay close to what I find standing.

I identify the fireflies, but admire more the cereal.

After the soil, the roots,

intricate strings

pulling through and collecting.

Once upon a year ago or so, I thought of writing candidly about my experiences,

so that those I barely speak to could have a sense of what I'm doing.

The terribly habit of ambiguity is at home in my poetry, and sometimes

I don't even know where these bags of images come from, that show

up on my mind's front porch.

I wrestle my weak descriptions so often, down in the grass,

all of us wet with rain or dew.

The verbs on top, than I am, till an adjective kicks me in the back

of my knee, and the adverbs all snicker.

Nouns crowd me all day long:

cows, cups, fissures and flowers.

So, apologies for the river water I've offered

in lieu of lemonade.

I'll go back to school soon and try to do better.

a question for ya'll

how will i transport my goat cross country?

my uncle peanut's picture

ben and his long face

Ben has been weeding for days now,

one long strip of land that may,

or may not, be used for our lettuce.

He's been out there, crouched in steel

tip boots, armed with a spade,

since last monday, when he heard

how his grandfather had died.

Now he speaks lowly to the wheelbarrow,

to the stubborn dandelion, the nettle.

No matter of rain,

let rivers form beneath him.

He quits only when you

kneel and take his clumsy hands,

rub the soil into your palms as well,

eat at his alter and lead him back,

by evening, to the supper table.

mostly for mom

once on an evening, she blew tree bark up my nose

and my head fell out my ears, while my mind sunk into my ribs.

i jumped into the ocean and swallowed breathes of salt water,

then lost my green shorts in the surf.

as i grow older, i find the first sighting of fireflies fuller,

thicker, more significant, more dense.

they flicker over the fields and i take them in,

replace my thoughts with insects,

replace my objects with actions,

my life with hers, yours, his.

i go home and sleep, listening to the scuffles,

just sounding like raccoons,

really being feelings.