the price of citrus

the price of citrus


I found you under the fog of dawn
There, you were a bright holly berry
a tradition in Winter, coming undone

There, you were a clean child again
but your fingers were buckled and weary
Still, I found you under the fog of dawn

I tried to lose you under the loom
unraveling knots of hair from a tapestry
this tradition in must, already undone

I, a tabby and you were a Maine Coon
At night, your eyes were always leary
but I found you under the fog of dawn

Oh, my love, come back, please do come
We can dance the needled claw jiggery
a tradition in must, already undone

The price of citrus and raw cinnamon,
for less, you grabbed all you could carry
I looked for you under this dogged dawn
But It's a tradition in must, already undone

in which I write a poem about more bizarre Missouri weather.

snow in april

in the Northern Hemisphere,

under this Medusa street lamp,

snow hits the road with a hiss,

because it's April and this

pavement is warm beneath my palm.

I can't tell you what it means

when morning is a horizon dream

and air freezes between your lips-

but I can tell you one thing,

and I promise it's only weather talk:

when the sun comes up, the snow will

melt and you will resume your rituals.

a poem and thoughts on another National Poetry Month...

On the Gasconade in March

bring to me
these things
in beauty;

first season’s
rain-paced
current,

crooked bluffs
weeping in
the mist,

an egret
with coal-
tipped wings,

a puddle
of wood
ducklings,

cigar smoke
thick and
low hung,

a standing
salute
from cows,

a canoe
on the
river.


Musings on another National Poetry Month

So it comes, every year. Every year, I'm ecstatic and try to push out all the poems from my body. I have since come to the conclusion that this is too painful and the cost for the amount of wine required is astronomical. Instead of setting unrealistic creating goals, I'm going to reframe this cantankerous beast. What is it about? How does it impact me? Why do I want to take time to revere my favorite of favorites?

It's time to explore not produce; but producing is cool too. Basically, awesome. Ok. So whatever. Something zen, okay? Ok. Roll with it.

Maybe there is nothing profound to say.


General Musings about whatever the fuck

• In the past several months, a few friends and I have started work-shoping together. I think it's just what the doctor ordered. Anyways, more on this later.
• I've been thinking a lot about spoken word. I wrote like a 5 page essay about how much I hate spoken word but I think it's a little too harsh. There is a good chance I won't be sharing it because I think I tend to lean towards critical rather than recognizing the importance of emotional resonance. Listen, there is even some spoken work I like. Not much. It's rare. I did spoken word a few times! It was terrible. Instead of giving you all my long-winded, judgmental rants about the subject, let me leave it at this.
• Oh, I wrote 3/4ths of a villanelle and decided there is a better chance of the world ending due to excessive monkey farts than there is of me finishing it. Sorry, villanelle Masters. It ain't my thing. It's feels like stabbing myself in the eyes with number two pencils. Elizabeth Bishop, I bow to you (always).
• Spring is here, in Missouri. Oh pollen, oh the humanity!