Little Vines 12/2/21

I found some time to do these this afternoon. Once I got going I could not stop, as so often happens.

one minute to six o’clock
the clock shouts Make way for the first notes of the polka
it grabs my hand and we take off across the floor

I paint the stairwell walls green
I carpet the treads in a branching pattern
I pretend I’m climbing a tree every time I go upstairs

the lawyer writes love letters to his girlfriend
in a high nasal whine
the same tone he uses in the courtroom

I had to find a way to starve
those nightmares
feeding on my utter exhaustion

The night leaps forward
I cannot sleep
Instead I write poetry in my head
that I do not remember in the morning

more clarity
more solutions
a yellow pencil can help you get there

not complicated, this kitchen spell you cast:
it’s lard it’s flour it’s salt Poof! a flaky thin pastry crust!
Then – Why does it never work for me?

You having just paid $400
for a jar of face cream
Now you hint that I should buy you lunch?

when it comes to married life
never happier
never goes out of style

She admired herself arrayed in the
neat contours of this indigo-striped

the magical sunrise
pardons our lack of faith
the goodness a new day could bring

I sew red buttons on my sweater
in the hope
the right person will pick up the signal

the potato who realizes
having survived peeling and boiling
it will now be mashed

a sensation of individual
compressed consciousness exploded:
tomatoes through the juicer splot into the bowl

her new novel a ballet of synonyms
partnered with puzzling verb forms
A modern dance that confounds me
Yet she is my best friend. I read it.

the front door
winded and gasping
after admitting two hundred eighty party guests in one hour

however you package your apology
the postage is always insufficient
for the weight of your guilt

the mirror witnesses that weird dance you do
putting on your pantyhose
if it could speak it would say
please buy a bigger size

a surname treks throughout the records
the genealogist
trails in determined pursuit

what a fastidious plagiarist he is
any anecdote you tell him
it will undergo a professional refresh
then to be resold as his own

the cow lines up downhill toward
the clique that rejected her
and farts

hard to believe that just a few hours ago
we were watching
a python doing back flips

the words
the mouth that stops saying them
one sentence after it should have

no longer than the tines of a fork
the millions of livid creatures advanced
each one hungering to participate
in its own deadly anecdote

I did it to spite him
It’s unsettling that
he thanked me for it

a whole lot of noise in the basement
the utility room bouncing and gyrating
carefully machined metal parts spraying all over
Oh no.

8 thoughts on “Little Vines 12/2/21

    • Thank you. When I was little, my mother made mashed potatoes out of a mix in a box. Said it was too much trouble to boil and mash potatoes. But my grandmother, who was a lovely cook of traditional Southern US food, thought otherwise and at her house (where I spent a lot of time) potatoes went to their designated destiny almost every night. I remember wondering, quite young, if they could feel the hot water or getting their skins peeled, but my grandmother said no. I was not sure. I am still not sure.

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