i haven't been able to breathe well
in over a week but it's okay
to the pink powder scent lingering
on my lapel, sleeves, beard, brain.
money is fake, she says,
energy is real.
show me around, i say,
you have so many rooms.
so much space.
in the morning
i can't get out of bed but i'm not sick.
other people complain about the cold
but there is no home like an old Levi's fleece
stained by sunlight
the color of dead skin. the sky?
burnt orange horizon, pale blue dome.
the bitch? spry and restless, full of energy
and restlessness. the woman? alive
and full of love, love, love, love.
for the love of loud
we drove three hours
northeast to Grass Valley
to cut six tracks in two days.
my love too fled north
with one of her sisters
and the kelpie in tow
to see her grandmother in Redding,
the meth capital of the world.
the city once again stayed put,
though it vibrated anxiously
as it took in shallow breaths of sea spray
The Great Receiver receives all as it is.
She breathes, and there is air.
She drinks, and there is water.
She listens, and there is music.
She beckons, and the universe swells.
a posy of flowers plucked
fresh from the country
of some heavenly earth
cannot restore my love—
a box of sweet
assorted in dazzling array
will not return my peace—
when everything is broken,
even the vibrancy and joy
of family and friends
has nothing in it but death—
the rhythm of life—
the swirling sky,
the passing of time—
alone will grow my love—
the rhythm of life—
and regal twilight—
alone will be my peace.
everyone's legs and feet
look so beautiful
behind the ballot box—
long skirts and gladiator sandals—
khakis and unstrapped high tops—
jeans and chinos—
slacks and low heels—
knee skirts and black boots—
little kids climbing up the poles.
sipping blackberry vodka—
listening to thoughts in twang.
beautiful lesbian with straight hair
balled up in a knot
atop her little head.
stray, wispy strands
charming not chaotic
around her denim collar
and stark headphones.
i wonder what she thinks of
and the misogyny
in our culture
and the hate
in our weather
and the plunging
and her lips.
no one knows what it's like to sit stoned in the back of a taxicab staring at the seagulls and crowd flitting about in the red light of a San Fran intersection. except thousands of people living in the city.
the people laugh—
dark in pastels—
under street lights fluorescent white,
casting familiar shadows
across the dirty living concrete underfoot—
creep of progress the flowing
unicorns wag their horns
in the cool night air.
sparkling stars blink weakly in the distance
made brighter and more beautiful
by the freely passing clouds. gliding
the mind moves the thumb
which praises the freely passing clouds.
my comfort, my chaos, my everything—
exploding nameless on the first day of the year
with a spicy smile of darkness and wonder
and spiral galaxies of feathery hair.
i take note of the characters in the small Thai restaurant:
the white tech bro, just graduated, showing his parents the town, discussing Family Guy and South Park. "i know a lot of things," he says.
the three white teenagers—the one in charge, another in pink Hello Kitty pajama pants, the last hapless.
the young woman w her mentally handicapped partner.
the young brown girls staring at their phones.
the old white balding man sitting by himself watching tv on his mini tablet while slurping up soup.
the quiet couple repeating, "genius, genius, genius."
i am sitting in bed, where my love has just handed me a hot cup of tea. i do not know what content of leaf it contains, but that is no matter. i accept all kinds. i accept all kinds of beginnings to sentences, even when purely egotistical. i am sitting in bed. the white blanket soft and plush spills out from my waistband, a growth upon the pastel-colored comforter. feathers fly everywhere. the mug is too hot even to lift, let alone to drink. visions of Bob Dylan in my mind. i am here, sitting in bed, wondering whether the tea of mysterious leaves will relieve the slight aching in my head. too many screens. lights. sounds. too many visions in my head. will this be my home in a month? cities are vicious things. all i want is a humble little home where my love and i can cook delicious things to be eaten to sustain our lives while we while the hours away listening to Emmylou Harris and her kind bang animal skins and thump the rims and pluck horsehair across the horizon of time. i want to edit my run-on sentences before they are even written. and so i do. my friend wants to know if i can write another piece of prose poetry for her zine and i don’t know that i can. so i open up a big blank window and attempt it. the lines materialize likes ones across the zero sum screen. half of everything i say is meaningless. the meaningful half comes out without being called. the other half self-corrects as it shows itself the way out.
the lightning divine falling of human hands upon the ivory keys issuing forth 18th century tones tingling the scores of human souls patiently seated in wooden pews ears open reverent and available to the source emanating the one true word.
the shuffling of slipshod feet wetted by rank pavement flooded w debris and mud flushed from the corridors we call our homes of dead wood and toxic cement assembled into trinkets jingling an endless interruption to the brilliant sonata that never stood a chance.
© Ronny Kerr. All rights reserved.