Sunday Thoughts

In a fog and on the banks there
you soaked your skirts and splashed
through the rapid's afterthoughts.
You kept time with the fire
while the moon calls and the wild calls
brought on more burning,
more guteral growls from the deep throat
of my desire, but
my wet lips, your damp thighs: all night
kissed only by wind, kissed on
as the soft thought of a towel.

Sunday Thoughts on Monday

It is more than words, this thing
that overcomes me.
It is a full-on flight:
all this caos
pulling towards some center,
instead of apart.

Pot-Luck

The phone rang twice. "I am calling because I have saved you," the phone said.
"We are going out to eat?" I said. I looked at my watch and saw it was dangerously close to twelve.
"NO, I have cookies to give you so you do not have to show up empty handed," it said.
"Fabulous," I said, and frowned into the phone.

Standing at the end of the fourty minute line, I peer towards the table. At that distance, I am not quite able to make any of the food out, but I imagine it must resemble a pig trough.
Coming closer to the table, the food was really not much more recognizable. It was all likely something with "casserole" tagged onto the end of it. Corn casserole, green been casserole, meat casserole, stuff left in the fridge casserole, you get the idea.
Really, I thought, it should all be called mush, instead. I was not optimistic towards eating any of it.
"Mmmmm, doesn't this look good?" she said.
"No," I said.

If I had my way, I would rename the occasion; call it, Pot-unluck. Except that unluck is not a word. Which is probably why they decided to call it luck, instead.
"It's all just about good advertisement," I say.
"Oh, corn-beef casserole!" she says.

Non-automated Biography

The hymn was about to begin. Bobby nudges me and nods his head towards the pew in front and too the left. We both chuckle.
God would much rather have some instruments when he starts singing, we both think.
A Great and Mighty Fortress Is Our God soon is boomed across the small sanctuary.
The hand-waver is leading with all the gusto of a ten year old on Christmas.
We try and build a fortress in our ears, block out the old man’s deep off key bass, then think of the sheet forts we will make later that night for our rubber-band war.

Bobby nearly lost an eye once during one of those wars. And he cried for about an hour. It was swollen shut the next day.
“All’s fair in love and war,” I told him as he lay there holding his eye and tasting the tears.
I had a cocky smile because I knew I had won, which seldom happens.
He hit me square in the jaw.
“All’s fair in love and war,” he whined.
And I spent the next hour crying with him.

When I looked back over at the old man singing, there in the sanctuary, there were tears in his eyes, too.
Really, I don’t think it had much to do with how bad he sang.
I decided, every now and again, old men just get hit in the jaw too.

Wish You Were Here

She turned off the lights and sat on the edge of her bed. Just the other night her neighbors were broken into. Or maybe now it was a week ago.
"The place was cleaned out," the young man said. "Lucky for us we weren't home."
And then he continued to load the U-Haul.

She hasn't slept through the dark hours since that conversation. Outside apartments are always crawling with noises, always something to bump and knock in the night.
She got off the bed to prop a chair against the front door.

Sunday Thoughts

The wisp cold light
of the Sunday rain;
it falls on you,
it ever calls
towards morning, or the day
on some grander scheme after.