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.