this roadkill-dropped-into-the-organic-bin day,
separating my trash
facing the risen sun
in point of shoe
in point of mind
held to waste-separation tasks,
I feel okay.
The pandemic does not roam freely inside the county fence.
My pyramidal cedars crest the roofline.
Soon they will appear in a search engine,
the Cedars of Lebanon faint comparison.
(May Bierut’s wounded and hurt curl their fists and thrust them
into the face of government incompetence!)
this summer day
short shorn although hair not so much,
I trim the blue sail of morning,
find a keen line into the wind,
Hello Mike One!
Hello Mike Two!
All men in the old school sense.
Funeral images held by a single paper clip.
Hello Mike Wallace!
Hello Mike Milne!
Hello David Medland!
Hello Eric Winter!
What say you now, Boys?
Essence of self reborn or still in staging?
Are you really really dead?
This is the roll call of dearly departed
I shout into the silence of my isolation.
Maybe I should turn y’all into fridge magnets!
Mike One (the photographer) says, "Use studio portraits.”
Mike Two (the reprobate) laughs like a nasty cherub.
David (first bestie) shakes his head. He never knew me creatively.
As for Eric, (the poet) irony becomes him best. Ever with a smirk.
I shout to tell them I am breathing,
have tasks before me, feel a need to push back.
The world too hot,
“Have a big crap!” I shout at FlockaOne
the bird formerly known as Blue Jay.
“Shit yacht owners, consumer junkies, resource stealers,
climate deniers, colonialists, into one big steaming pile.
Encourage angry socialists,
happy face progressives,
green shouting vegans,
- dung beetles all -
to roll up our resources and recycle them for humanity.”
But that's just an aside.
Covid’s got my tongue.
I will not repent.
You hear me Boys?
Just raising the morning flag.
Soon enough the cosmic wind will carry me onward.
You have a safe day okay?