For the Netflix Cue

Haiku d’jour

Red morning sky —
   snail,
     are you glad of it?
– Issa

Idée d’jour

The struggle with evil by means of violence is the same as an attempt to stop a cloud, in order that there may be no rain.
— Leo Tolstoy, novelist and philosopher (1828-1910)

How It Goes

It goes in fits & starts.
It goes summer sun slow.
It goes with ham & eggs & flap jacks.
It goes past the creosote dumps.
It goes where no poem dares turn.
It goes with kettle bangs and wet whispers.
It goes like a gong.
It goes like sparklers chasing fireflies.
It goes like the terraces of a woman sleeping.
It goes like night terrors.
It goes well with white wine or vinegar.
It goes & it goes, & it rolls & it flows.

I walked with the morning light.
Now I sit shiva with the setting sun.
And it goes down soft and dusty.
It goes down smooth.
It goes on straight toward midnight.
It goes past memory
and takes a right at justice.
It goes to the heart of darkness
at the center of the light.
It goes & it glows & it rolls & it grows.

I like watching it go.
It goes like a lover's hips rolling
like a ship on steady waves.
It goes like pastures waving
in the harvest season.
It goes well with the hustlers and the street car punks
and the men huddled in doorways
and the women hidden in culverts.
It goes like a half-remembered riddle.
It goes & it goes & it rolls & it flows.

Begun as a free-write inspired by Dr. Omed on Twitter

Blossom, 08June12

The bush on the north edge of my property (my backyard) is blossoming. Does it celebrate southern sun? The impending arrival of solstice?

Whirlwind

Palm Reading

I trace the lines of my hands: blue highways of intimate discourse. Bright backroads where the stars taste my heartbeat.

This long diagonal line - does it aim to Scorpius? Or is it the left-hand side of the path from soul to mind? It slices my lifeline, which traverses the full palm map.

Seven loves flow from the heart. Blue highways near my thumb suggest alternate tales.

This line intersecting the Scorpion line at the left could be the Archer. Let my aim be plain and true. My words the plumb line into meandering destinies.

A new line flows from the top of that line, falling off the right to where monsters may dwell. An alternate future parallels from the base of the life line.

I would reveal all my secrets, but they remain hidden even to me.