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Posted by nah

THE SYLVIA SCHOOL FOR BOYS


Recall sing song science -- and what nerves, or brains, or glands are -- ludicrously paint lines between globs and the feeling: hungry, lonely, whatever. Watch TV and pause at a scene where there is some resonant product placement, maybe The Yellow Wallpaper, maybe the Lyft app open on a an iPhone. Think about anyone who ever took care of you, and how you felt they did it wrong. Think about someone who did not follow the plan, who did not get the memo, who kept doing things in a way that made sense to them but not you and how angry that really really really made you. Then think about how getting angry makes you angrier than the original anger. Consider how any person is a child, always. Snot in nose,  spit in mouth, womb to tomb. Sing the Pokemon theme song. Repeat forever.
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Low-lying land

Kids in Tuvalu, they are in second grade
learning about emigration, what it means
to be an emigrant, to be submerged
in a new culture that isn't yours
because your birthright
is underwater
The government is planning
for the expatriation of its
10,000 remaining citizens
refugees fleeing a slow flood
of saltwater irrigation
and long goodbyes
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On to February

January nights were made
for lounging on car hoods,
ashing in the old snow
shimmering under fields of stars
feeling contained
in midwinter middle america
Poor January.
It doesn't snow anymore and
everyone's quit cars and smoking.
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A Bigger Pot

The desk plant
is getting woody.
It is the first thing
I haven't killed
in years.
Mint, the fish,
vials of sperm,
my marriage,
all wilted under
my black thumb
but this stubborn
succulent
needs a bigger pot.
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Any Fool

My shadow self is needy
And dying to be cared for.
She will go to where the otters are
Floating on the calm waters
Out past the breaking waves
Earnestly splashing
She will touch them
And she will want to drown
Oh, but she's the shadow
of a very strong swimmer
and this goddess, supernatural
will make it back to shore just fine.
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Posted by nah

FOUNDATIONAL LOVE NARRATIVE


None of it makes sense 
but I do it anyways
little drunk wolf eyes peering out 
from inflamed lids
you’re all grayness and redness 
half alive but I feel so 
alive with you
like a kiddo my laughter 
comes out water 
sparkling sprinkler waves
a whole monumental fountain 
for public bathing 
unafraid except of want -- 
knowing it might 
take me across
and then how would I 
get back

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Posted by nah

EMERALD CITY FUNERAL MARCH


I can still see your house 
from mine
and the chasm where 
the post office was
the hill was important
crucial blackberry zone
lies about the Dairyqueen parking lot 
terminal gasps of a city
black eyed susan deadhead stalks 
salmon metaphors work good 
where did the people go
where do they come from
the river is on fire but 
the fish stay put 
glass and glass and glass 
the tank outside of the classroom
if you were good you got to 
monitor the eggs, wait for growth
lazy daze walks up and down
tracking signs that claim
how much time is left
Dis N That boutique, Pho Beef Noodle
the Starbucks on Rainier 
saintly status now that it’s gone
old men played dominoes there
the new place is OK if you’re willing 
to be a computer - like me today -
I opted for the chrome as well
it contrasts with white tile
so clean, the pastel autumn palette 
of fibrous garments
fresh metropolitan motherhood
ochre, salmon, pale ass sky blue
me too! again, and also
but childless baby spice
pigtails and fine lines
antioxidants and lip smackers
anyways I can still see
your house from mine
the Jo Jos we ate on the curb
the ways we are the same
coat our fingertips in seasoning 
it works for a second 
devour the crumbs
as everything passes

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Haiku 2

You left your imprint
Dry saliva on my cheek
I can't stop smiling
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January 31 Poem: Last


Started slowly
uncertain and unclear

Managed to make it
half-way

Keep moving on
Light lifted from grey

Now the end is near
and "last" is the final word I hear
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Doves

The only sound that day was chickens
Determined clucking sticking to the hillside
Oh, the wind that day, too
Finding spaces between branches  to whistle
It all died down, the whistles, the clucks,
When your corpse slid onto the screen
Dead and somewhat purple
Cheeks caved in as an old chapel
Dedicated to saints we don't pray to anymore
Maybe Julian the Hospitaler
Patron of pilgrims and childless people.
Or Peregrine, probably,
Who prayed his cancer away.
The chickens, the wind,
They know when you need a moment.
And then that dove, on the summit,
Circling my head like a mirage.

I dreamed I was on my pilgrimage.
I left early in the evening
From a Spanish albergue
And there were chickens in my way.
I picked one up and wrapped her in my arms
Her body more fragile than expected
Her trust much easier to earn than I deserved.
I whistled as I walked to the beat of clucking
And I did not think, "I'm glad I am not dead."

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Posted by nah

PICKUP STICKS


old man hands
thick with water
fast like hummingbirds
sometimes your hair
stands straight up
I laugh because
I love you and 
it’s funny how 
my caring 
is so caged
then releases
in these happy 
cascades like
the trippy, skippy 
walks home 
past all  the curtained 
living rooms 
of tired people 
watching things

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