each day of stasis
illustrates the depth of our
forced cataclysm
individuals
response articulates our
new reality
my forecast dictates
a renewal in July
and it’s influence
the reconstruction
is nearly complete. fortune
begat vacancy
user is private
what could you be hiding from?
a resignation?
at six ravens ranch
the towering redwoods sway
gently in the breeze
initial contact
tentative at first but not
unwilling to please
Anderson Valley
bakes in the afternoon sun
just before the fog
and upon the end
glistening and glinting in
the fresh morning light
the road back and forth
through the mountains to the shore
blackberries ripen then burst
sparring not sparing
in the moment deeper still
promises to keep
this time of year you can hear clearly the rushing intent of the stream even though it can’t be seen
it cuts
every second it’s cutting, moving and cutting, zig-zagging, digging deeper as it goes, a perfect perpetuity
rippling cacophony
the sound of it becomes everything, negates everything, is as if unstoppable, its roaring way made
it swirls
instead of faltering, swells into haystacks defying its state, then calmly into eddies and calmly into pools
the canyon
it’s gnawed sits in gentle acceptance, almost embracing, always approaching but never encroaching
waiting to be washed away
our chance meeting was
determined by elements
beyond our control
a stake in the new
proposal, a strike against
cautious wherewithal
serendipitous
the vocal reality
enacts perfection
careful and vacant
the acceptance of the soon
future. a failure
the afterparty
revealed shortcomings we were
incapable of
some friends were on their way over to the house.
a communique revealed they were running late,
so I gave them my landline phone number
in case they needed to get in touch.
i have had the number for thirty years, a teen
being acquiesced to when I desired my own phone number
in the ninth grade. a pinnacle of individual identity.
the phone rang tonight, rare in this era of cell towers and
invisible connection.
it must be a robocall, or so I thought
“hello sir, we’d like to ask you about the fishing habits of the household.”
hello, hello, hello, hello, hello
“yes, sir. I’m really here.”
i decided to turn the tables, and asked her about her fishing habits.
i had never had a grand experience pulling a fish from it’s natural habitat.
my father’s best friend was an avid fisherman, and those trips down the river
or to the far cove always seemed to get in the way of perfecting the pivot
at second base, or interrupting the most recent plea for a drum set.
she was so surprised that I had begun to inquire about her background, that she
immediately responded with a concise description of her involvement.
“i like to fish from the shore, not so much from a boat. but I’m still like a
little girl when I have to put the bait on the hook, or pulling the hook out of the fish.”
“why do you have to define that moment within the supposed weakness of femininity?
i’m petrified of putting a worm on a hook, much less scaling a dead animal. why don’t you say
‘scared, like a little boy?’ “
“you’re right…..
but I still have to do this survey……”
i responded by saying “you have sixty seconds”
she gets the answers her superiors are looking for in forty seven seconds.
“thank you sir, that was the best call I have ever had.”
I hang up the phone and wait for the sound of tires grinding
the last of the winter’s sand in a slow stop
before the driver puts the vehicle into park.
not plain to the eye as far as you or I can see
but plainly free to be seen
by eyes keen of the hawk
across the field and up the
tree
perception has levels, we quickly conclude
proudly
and out of thin air
deducing
and upon the virtues of specialization
a tangent is unwittingly
embraced
and so forth into
the complexities
we only think we understand
but really don’t
his body bobs smoothly as the branch
of the tree waivers just so
on a breeze implied
but his gaze is fixed
we agree upon a rodent at first, then address specificity
surmising from the grass
dangling from a talon
a mouse
and that’s when, like a reflex, from the tree he dropped
a flash of wings and
his broad tail fanning
out
there was a moment when we were
both aware of
each other’s gasp &
the breath held as the suspense
played out
then back to the perch in a bound
settling in and smoothing feathers before
with three quick snips
consuming our
confirmation
the very essence
the connection between beings
the barrier and the welcoming touch
there is a rhythm
there is an association
there is a will & there is a way
this is an answer
this changes the questions
this gives as it takes away
a temptation
a tongue tip tap
a taste to be tackled
skin
fat
spice
i was here when your
mother passed away, that day-
continuity
it was difficult
to reveal that she was a
member of the cult
intention- our point
of prior completion- it’s
course has remained fixed
i swallowed a pair
of scissors, to prove you wrong
i hope I was right
transformation’s goal
is functional policy.
negotiation
GROUNDHOG CAPABILITY
a female groundhog
has been living under the antiquated
outhouse
behind our home for 14 years.
just before Father’s Day,
a new litter appears in the backyard-
harmlessly
gnawing on fescue
and other overgrowth in the meadow that borders
the woodland, at the edge of our property.
at the end of the day, which I
always look forward to – hops in hand
with water flowing into the beds –
one of the new litter suddenly scurries away from
the main garden in the center of the yard,
far from the safe borders where they can
feed on low hops shoots and jewel weed-
plentiful.
the gardens are a tribute to my step-father,
who eased the pressure of being responsible for a
group that welded nuclear submarines together
by growing plants from seed.
after my mother was widowed
from melanoma and that welding burn,
she eventually had to sell our home.
a season later I found the book that was his bible-
“A Garden for All Seasons”
published by Reader’s Digest, which I thought was appropriate,
as that was the only reading material in the waiting room
in the nursing home my mother worked at.
she had to drag us there before school
in the rapid aftermath of the divorce.
we have had successes
and failures
following
the copious and the conscientious
measures of our intention.
i read online that pouring
gasoline
into the groundhog hole would rid you of
the issue.
i was quite wary of the that option.
INDEBTED
i committed a crime
i was arrested
i spent a night behind bars
i paid my dues to society
as part of the penalty, i was to engage
in 32 hours of community service,
otherwise known as the Alternative Incarceration Program.
we were due at the facility
by 8 am, and i taught myself, finally,
how to show up fifteen minutes early.
our assignment one day was to clean
the very offices that meted out our punishment.
a boy being raised by a single mom in the ‘70’s
often meant you were known as “the cleaning lady’s son”
this programmed moral code would haunt me
as much as the guilt of penance,
and it’s permanence.
“why don’t you start by vacuuming the carpets
on the second floor. the vacuum is in the utility closet.”
i find the utility closet easily enough,
and came upon three different vacuum cleaners.
i decided the blue one looked to be most of service,
the first of many mistakes on the day.
apparently, the criminals such as me had no idea
that a vacuum cleaner depended on filters,
and maintaining them.
i spend the next two hours using different
combinations of the three vacuum cleaners
to remove the inch thick debris buildup
from years of neglect.
i was unaware, completely out of my element,
in this alternative penitentiary, that cameras on closed circuit
recorded and broadcast my every move.
as I meticulously revived these machines of convenience
the entire staff of the AIC
was watching
with bated breath
the broadcast visual
of myself and my mother’s lessons on cleanliness
“do it right, Richie!”
an echo more imprisoning than my impetuous sentence