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.