derecho of twenty-twenty-three
the sky got black in the afternoon
many people ignored the sirens
their houses began to shake and squeal
intense praying and screaming began
the lights went off, power lines were snapping all over town
there were sparks all along the freeways
the dreaded dastardly derecho was here
unlike a tornado, this wind was a straight tunnel
sixty miles wide, two hundred and fifty miles long
people stopped videotaping and ran to their bathtubs
throwing their children in first, lying on top of them
roofs were torn off
semis were lifted and tossed
landing upside down and sideways
in minutes our town was turned into a war zone
uprooted trees were sliding down the sidewalks
this enemy was fierce and determined
many of us did not expect to survive
hugging strangers after the aftermath
Long-range forecasts
predict outbreaks of pretty weather girls.
In the event of short-range predictions,
some ugly guy may be substituted.
In the case of an emergency,
mice may seek the sheltering wings
of owls and hawks.
By midnight, the total destruction
of garden gnomes is anticipated.
Survivors are asked to remain
in their bathtubs
until absolutely clean.
A squirrel got into the homestead,
it picked a lock with a dry thorn.
The smell of dank fur clung.
We carried small talk above our heads.
Nothing put away but still dangles.
Denim droops, snagging
the arms of rumpled shadows,
fusty jeans gander and loll.
Calico and cotton are rescued
the soggy separated
from the mildewed.
Soon front steps will be scoured,
tails and collars made to flap
while medium-sized back-yard critters
flounce and fluff.
If a blotting wind returns,
the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail,
we will wash bathtubs,
fully clothed with yesterday's suds.
I'm promised to your finger tips
The ones that run through my hair and run across my skin
When there's space between that skin and the cloth that hangs off me
My shirts aren't tucked into my pants you can enter and exit as you please
Your fingerprints left over the seats of our parents cars
People we forget we know
People that are nearly the blood we rub off our skin and let drain into sinks and bathtubs
I promise you my nights
When no one can hear us and no and can recall what exactly we've done
Asleep or unaware
Passed out or might as well be
Your the drug I take
The one that makes me forget
Making me numb
Your lips the cure for the problems I can’t solve
You the reverse to the sins committed that night
I smile for you
And for the numbness you bring
For the morning may come and your name may be gone
If bathtubs grew onions
then feet might have bunions
that stink as well as get sore
If you can't remove all the dirt
your toes will sure hurt ~
that your husband
will ignore as he snores
Cramped steps acquaint heavy hatch reluctant
Cushion hush cellar isolate, harsh sun migraines
Catapulted myopic into apocalyptic destruction
Crumple of coastal community permits my gains
Grim resilient, plotted alone, abided by rations
Tidal wave treachery turned streets to swamps
Flotsam tops remnants sea's fury didn't flatten
Successors gorge on corpses misfortunes crop
Erased ocean era, crook posts pitifully campaign
Brashly I churn bathtubs of backstroked arachnids
Inhabit rainforest ripple stream, source I can claim
Traverse canopy like trampoline, scout eyes active
8th March
Out of Mangrove
Don't dare joke with their doctrine
Nor raise it in a latrine
Like had tried Goofing Kathrine
Now melted like margarine!
Their Doctrine not in bathrooms:
Bathtubs never living rooms;
Their camera can scenes zoom,
As one body choose your doom!
One they won't mind battering
And one's tressure scattering;
No rowing of one's bought boat
No testing of one's new coat...
You they shall tell with cleared throat
" Your body shall in pond float!"
Its Malice that won't Vanish;
Evil thoughts they won't banish.
We carry small talk above our heads, ceilings drip clouds.
Nothing is put away. Coats dangle over chairs in layers.
Drugged by spate and mizzle, denim droops,
snagged over rummage
and the outstretched arms of impedimenta.
The house awakes to a soft toed patter.
Around us, cuffs pull the roof closer to damp collars,
hangers weep in wardrobes,
while the unhung sink in muddy shallows.
Before the light paddles away, calico, cotton, and shirttails
are rescued, bundled into higher heaps;
the soggy separated from the merely mildewed.
The muddled and fusty raised above an imagined tide.
Tomorrow, front steps will be scoured;
the washed-out made to flap.
Squirrels may walk the earth again,
and if a blotting wind returns, we will wave
from dry bathtubs.
Translucent turquoise tide pools
soft shimmer on the sand,
mirrors for vain seagulls,
bathtubs for crusty crabs.
The tide slap lapping on the beach,
cavorting up and down the shore
with sounds of gentle laughter
mixing tumbling rocks and broken shells.
Adrift along a fantasy,
stretched out upon the sand;
my mind a merry fishhook
baiting dreams like fishermen.
Above, the sky’s bright powder puff
has rouged my cheeks like shells,
spritzed freckles across my nose,
brown spray amid the swells.
Days like these cannot be bought
nor pursued as treasured store;
you stumble on them, mindlessly,
whether rich or whether poor.
A gift to lift your hefty load,
from life’s harsh grind, reprieve;
lay back, let salt sea breezes blow
and feel your stress unwind.
Copyright, May 1, 2022
Hot Tubs
Tin bathtubs were hung in backyards, it’s true
They were brought in on bath night, right on cue
Good old ma would fill the tub
Then give us a soapy scrub
Hot tubs ain’t new, had 'em in old days too.
3rd May 2021
The land around here looks like it belongs to the side of a lake,
it slopes downward gently, suggesting a meeting with water,
it front-yard-surfs on grass rippling winds,
it slowly sails under the puffy power of clouds.
but the water is in our bathtubs and sinks,
it is in our plumbing and it gurgles and clanks
when its alcohol content runs low.
Water is forced uphill by a secret pumping station
on the far shore of the State freeway.
When it rains we consider this a drowning,
none of us will swim, considering swimming
a prolongation of our ultimate dark night,
besides our above ground pools allow only space
for the whelping of baby seals, and we honor that.
There is of course, always ice for tinkling glasses.
If the rain persists, we are all drowned by evening
then we can only roll gently, and dare not trust
the floppiness of potted feet,
and so we tumble towards an imagined lake
one that waits for us
at the end of someone else’s drive.
However by morns early light
we are washed up on this tilting land again
and all is as dry as beached fish bones,
bones that are known to be reconstituted into pills
for the medication of occasional overbrightness.
bathtubs have them
and some fingers
but not the gardening ones
around the rosie? sure I know it
But you will never find
one in my nose
Do I look like a bull?
Hoops is another word
describing them
But then you think of
rim shots
embarrassing basketball players
A squirrel got into the apartment,
it picked a lock with a dry thorn.
The smell of dank fur clung.
We carried small talk above our heads.
Nothing put away but dangles.
Denim droops, snagging
the arms of rumpled shadows,
fusty jeans gander and loll.
Calico and cotton is rescued
the soggy separated
from the mildewed.
Soon front steps will be scoured,
tails and collars made to flap
While medium-sized back-yard critters
flounce and fluff.
If a blotting wind returns,
the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail
We will wash bathtubs
for only water washes rain away.
Pure cotton ball fluffy
Most popular tissue, end of a q-tip
Fresh clean virginal snow
Bathrooms and bathtubs
Twinkles in the cosmos
White all around me
Lacy white collars
Lacy white anklets
Lacy white petticoats
Lacy white pantaloons
Lacy white old people
White all around me
Light fixture essence
Glow from a distant headlight
Porches and paper
All the same bright
Tails of deer, polka dots on a navy dress
White all around me
up up up up
the escalator of fortune & fame
up up up up
the bounsy frogman rises
up up up up
selling out his own kind for wealth
up up up up
now posh & proud in his green villa
up up up up
known as a bachelor in his thirties
up up up up
velvety robe on his slimy body
up up up up
pond whisky on the rocks in his glass
up up up up
expensive cigars and marble bathtubs
up up up up
forced to pay his secret tadpoles
up up up up
they call him crook and even a snake
up up up up
he lives his reckless life anyway
up up up up
he doesn’t care about the others
up up up up
thinking he’s still loved and popular
up up up up
but unfortunately for him
up up up up
the justice, the French are coming
up up up up
rises the frogman in a boiling pot
down down down down
the throats of ravenous gourmets
up up up in the heaven
that’s where that bastard certainly isn’t
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