Summer box.

Second grade chair.

The good mornings.

Drawings.

Wishbones.

Grizzly Bear.

Gentle Ben.

These are a few of my favorite things.

Tree Hill Pottery.

Sunday promise.

Days spent alone, enclosure,
and finally freedom. Can
anyone understand me? I don't,
don't, don't think so at all.
God, please give me a few more years.
I promise, promise, promise you
I'll do you proud.

If I'm not right now.
If I'm not right now.

Sodapop is here, and thanks,
Grizzle Bear, Mama Jean, too.

And you know how I do,
dollar bills, and little prayers,
don't let my love,
I can't go on.
Tell me in some little ways,
you know what I mean.
Hold my hand in some soft and secret
way.
I'm sorry.

I'll do you proud some day.
I promise. and I promise, and I promise.

Love,
me.

Festival.

Things that freak me out: crowds, sitting in crowded, closely-spaced rows of chairs, porta-potties, being separated from my group, standing in lines, being cold and underdressed, watching people eat, peeing on leg, circus food, bottled water, people that know me whom I don't think I know, mustard, being unsure of where exits are, antibacterial soap, children, norms, open back shirts with nude-colored bras, police, litter, and being, ultimately, lost.

Doubter, I.

I don't think I can do,
what you want me to do,
I don't think, you think,
what I want you to.

Begin again.

Back to China Street. The relationship is manic, charmingly doomed-feeling. The cats sleep in screen-window beds. I smile in secret.

I have bikes and wood panels.

All I know, is all I know.

Maybe, Mama Jean.

The day was, at least, only muggy warm,
pregnant with rain that came only in dawn,
and still it gives quiet maybe-warnings,
maybe-rumbles.

Heavy, soundless yawn.

We looked at new digs today,
cat-pee and crumble-paint,
did not scare us away.

Maybe.

Things are hard to figger,
sometimes. Maybe.

Mama Jean comes in from porch-steps,
motor-purr, solidarity.

Friends arriving, from out of town,
at seven or eight, maybe, nine,
now, ten. Eleven.

Maybe.

I need to paint.
There are paintings, booked,
to be painted. There is a limp, the these-days,
in my stride. Marring my handsome.
Burring my strut-some days.
God in my ear says that time is running away,
and no amount of youthful all-fine,
will rip that from me.

God said it.

Maybe.

Tomorrow, I screw screen-door on.

Evening, fourth of July, from America.

Today, I am like,
voodoo doll,
Or like,
recipient of
voodoo doll might,
or do.
My body does not,
heed my beck,
to light.
Or does not meet,
my need,
to move.

When you are not here.

You should be with us,
feeling like we do.
-perry farrell

We sleep in desperate position,
junkies for cool breezes.

The cats will not come in after dark,
for, presumably, they have found dim recesses,
corners perfect for hiding from day.

Nooks, I imagine, accessible to,
apparently, nocturnal birds,
cicadas, things caught easily,
and three, four times a night;
things to brag about,
in insistent howl,
waking me in practiced transition,
from panic to praise.

I paint, talk to the radio,
cats.

Feathers, from predawn kill,
litter my hair,
the hallway.

We loll, naked, in your absence,
as we do,
when you are here,
only now, in silence,
save for panting,
and, unaudienced sigh.

We strongarm melting hours,
taking slow advantage,
to light wood with color;
that we can hold high,
heads,
when you come home.

Here-we-ares.

The cats, they lay in exasperated recline,
collapse, really, as if see-the-day-through
seems over-the-top.

I know.

But I explain to them, that they are mistaken.
That even this too-much-heat is not-so-bad.

That, we are strong.
That we have been bitten,
by scorpion, by fears-of-fears,
by danger-pits-in-darkness,
that, listen, we are stronger.

Let us stand, with sinew and pump-fist,
let us say, we are the okay-kind.

Okay-kind.

Our own world.

Oh, Wyatt. Right on.

Floor level me.

My ankles, are, I don't know,
so much more sore, than any sore I've ever known,
broken, maybe, in little pressure breaks, like
you dancers and jocks seem so sure about,
so glib in hindsight, like medals, like yeah,
like to brag about, compare about,
like I hate. Like, I've avoided for this reason,
because fuck this. I was skinny and active before
this. So, take your little challenges and carb
whatevers, and put them in a hospital file
with all the other things that hurt, and, if you
can bend, have a seat, let me regale you with,
how now, as I write this, my belly hangs over my
belt, and my ankles wrapped in gauze, and, unrelated,
my haircut is busted, and I screamed at the mirror
today, and broke part of it, and maybe, things, are,
spiraling,
a little bit, out of control.

We roll.

I can feel your beating heart,
little bird,
I'm scared, too.
If I pretend
everything is,
like, cool,
then,
are we cool?

Little mama.

Little mama,
there's a flower in the hallway,
says, why don't you come meet me,
sometime?
Little mama,
I'm so sorry,
for the times that I was,
mad.
I know,
that I bring the black days,
on.

And all I know, is all I know,
is all I know.
And I know, I know.
And all I have seen,
is misery.
Seems to get the best of me.
Hey mama,
hey mama,
let me know.

Hey mama,
there's a tiny sound,
in the back of my head.
It says, ooh! oh!
And the birds are chirping!
And I laid down in the bed,
and I said,
ooh! I close my eyes
and I will wait for morning rise,
and then I said,
ooh weh hee ooh hey!

Mama, I been searching for so long.

I seen you come along,
seen you made me happy.
I seen that things gone wrong,
we both fall down.
Oh! Can we come up together?
I don't know.
'Cause you made me someone,
you no longer want to know.
'Cause you made me be someone,
who turn you down,
who made you sad,
brought you down,
made you mad,
we fought along the way.

And I don't know.
I dont know.
And I don't know.
Well, I don't know,
and I don't know.