Drenched – 1 part wine, 2 parts anticipation;
Waking up to 5 parts sensibility.
Morsels of Fritos and homemade chocolate chips,
Wedged and fermenting in the crags of my molars;
and it’s back to the brush;
Truth hisses and stands steaming
in the temporary halt of its journey through time;
locked to the ground and swaying as I write it.
The “now,” there is the cork of the matter. Pith.
We run ahead of ourselves, and look back
asking about the series of nows,
passing by, swelling, and then disappearing like jet contrails.
Is it truth or is it me as the sum of all the truths.
Tiny pre-summer ants,
Navigate battlefields on the sidewalk,
skirting around the shadows of flattened pistils and stamen.
I run over this plexus of stems and petals –
each day, the pink ripening to saffron
then burnt sienna then blackening on the curling edges.
Ah I run, and you run the crazy out – run the sagacity out.
Would be nice to share the dumb obfuscated silence
that only exhaustion brings; faint breath sounds,
rather than these words
that beat at the gates
and burst out like bats from the Carlsbad Caverns.
I’m feeling battish,
dipping mental bread in the sparkles of crimson
left behind in your steps,
as you ambulate over esplanade and dirt trail
the flavor makes me ostensibly awake,
but sensibly tired.
So I sleep, with clean teeth.
