George shows first,
an old Rush rocker,
as old as my dad but wearing an american flag doo-rag,
still drums a laborer's life.
He's come for an errand,
the errand I run.
We talk of music,
of tuning heads,
of the importance of the right sound,
of the difference between a low flat snare and one crackin' high toned,
of cymbology,
He's got a drum key.
he'll bring one by next time
and leaves before dinner.
Upstairs Ben and Jess are prepping,
yellow seeds of red chili's scattered across the floor,
their skins now soaking.
the counter's active with their hands, and
vegetables, green and red and purple and yellow,
white rice and black beans boiling
conversation.
Abby arrives
her round and lush cheeks.
she's a blue and gray and white patterned bow in her curly hair.
her eyes happily light,
hugging.
She brings her family
Adrian and little Pheonix
Phee's brighter than the sun
5 years old and just beaming energy
she has grown with the same golden hair
she had when she was so so tiny-tiny
just barely crawling
Adrian's considerate always
bright as a whip
a pleasure to pour a beer for
Glad.
The dogs are there.
little Rocko,
white and spotted
like a fat little rocket
but sits now waiting
with medium Champ
a forty pound barrel
waiting so patiently
sniffing away.
Then, within the kitchen, there's an idle moment.
Ben slows his working.
Jess and I haven't the energy.
for too much whiskey her and I go
get some beer.
she's parked in the diner's lot
Rocko explores then books it back,
in.
The car
I'm shit for giving directions,
wiped out,
batty and chatty.
Jess is cheery,
letting me be
weird and happy.
I thank the Buddha and the God and the
fuck, she's intuitive,
somehow knew exactly when to ask the way.
There were times we could have died.
but, then,
whoever wouldn't kill
us accidents
easily considering the grand scheme?
Of driving
on our way back
Rocko, perches from my lap each of his forelegs on either knee
looks straight-forward out the window
wondering
as if life were some great mystery
Jess and I talk
whiskey and whiskey
then about her motorcycle and how down in the valley
the cityscape was leering
unfriendly gray buildings and too much industry
Nothing like free air cycling.
Back home
Sarte's on the coffee table whereby Diandra stands
worried about existence
as a writer
putting her whole heart up and
having to retch out those insides
She's not too worried
really,
just talking
Beside her Olivia
calmest and nicest girl
with her boy Neil
My coworkers
those who I work for
those which work towards
those who we work for
gladly
Eat.
Ben, truly content.
old friend Cynthia shows with her dog Jake.
they both remind me of stones from the water.
Jake for
long and blue, gray and white
is his fur, his
aquamarine eyes.
Her for
a birthmark
a patch of color, river green,
around the white
beached obsidian.
I'm suddenly stuck
stabbed wondering
where they're at.
Smoke flowers
circled,
joking:
the only meat Diandra will eat
is human.
"Death" comes up.
Diandra
imagines a friend's will
stating
she has to eat him.
portrays herself holding an invisible arm,
chewing,
lightly.
Abby delights! She has news! "Have you heard!?"
"you can now turn yourself into a diamond!"
"that's exactly what I want to do."
someone else starts talking
but I'm still listening,
staring,
her feet
tired from
heels.
she goes on.
she'd shave a piece of it,
give away the diamond made of her
to all of her friends.
"Oh wouldn't that be sweet!"
she chuckles and sighs.
I'm intent,
drawn away from
missing
them.
I'm imagining
I'd purposely put her shard
in a place where it were
unprotected and
vulnerable,
forcing
contemplation, care,
concentration, concern,
consistence,
invisible containment,
crystalline
in the light.
Give it away.
love.
I'm in love.
I'm in love with so many.
The dancing queen
Pheonix
asks "won't you dance with me,
hun?"
dances modern.
sings along
to Talking Heads.
says,
"first step: walk.
second step: dance.
third: talk to friends.
fourth: . . .party!"
sounding wise
and overfilled by energy.
Unknown
its already come to an end,
she grins but is saddened,
tucking her chin as if to hide her lie.
Her father tells
how she danced under a disco ball
New Year's Night,
for four hours.
She jumps high
as an exclamation point
and leaves not knowing
she's the last life of the party.
an old Rush rocker,
as old as my dad but wearing an american flag doo-rag,
still drums a laborer's life.
He's come for an errand,
the errand I run.
We talk of music,
of tuning heads,
of the importance of the right sound,
of the difference between a low flat snare and one crackin' high toned,
of cymbology,
He's got a drum key.
he'll bring one by next time
and leaves before dinner.
Upstairs Ben and Jess are prepping,
yellow seeds of red chili's scattered across the floor,
their skins now soaking.
the counter's active with their hands, and
vegetables, green and red and purple and yellow,
white rice and black beans boiling
conversation.
Abby arrives
her round and lush cheeks.
she's a blue and gray and white patterned bow in her curly hair.
her eyes happily light,
hugging.
She brings her family
Adrian and little Pheonix
Phee's brighter than the sun
5 years old and just beaming energy
she has grown with the same golden hair
she had when she was so so tiny-tiny
just barely crawling
Adrian's considerate always
bright as a whip
a pleasure to pour a beer for
Glad.
The dogs are there.
little Rocko,
white and spotted
like a fat little rocket
but sits now waiting
with medium Champ
a forty pound barrel
waiting so patiently
sniffing away.
Then, within the kitchen, there's an idle moment.
Ben slows his working.
Jess and I haven't the energy.
for too much whiskey her and I go
get some beer.
she's parked in the diner's lot
Rocko explores then books it back,
in.
The car
I'm shit for giving directions,
wiped out,
batty and chatty.
Jess is cheery,
letting me be
weird and happy.
I thank the Buddha and the God and the
fuck, she's intuitive,
somehow knew exactly when to ask the way.
There were times we could have died.
but, then,
whoever wouldn't kill
us accidents
easily considering the grand scheme?
Of driving
on our way back
Rocko, perches from my lap each of his forelegs on either knee
looks straight-forward out the window
wondering
as if life were some great mystery
Jess and I talk
whiskey and whiskey
then about her motorcycle and how down in the valley
the cityscape was leering
unfriendly gray buildings and too much industry
Nothing like free air cycling.
Back home
Sarte's on the coffee table whereby Diandra stands
worried about existence
as a writer
putting her whole heart up and
having to retch out those insides
She's not too worried
really,
just talking
Beside her Olivia
calmest and nicest girl
with her boy Neil
My coworkers
those who I work for
those which work towards
those who we work for
gladly
Eat.
Ben, truly content.
old friend Cynthia shows with her dog Jake.
they both remind me of stones from the water.
Jake for
long and blue, gray and white
is his fur, his
aquamarine eyes.
Her for
a birthmark
a patch of color, river green,
around the white
beached obsidian.
I'm suddenly stuck
stabbed wondering
where they're at.
Smoke flowers
circled,
joking:
the only meat Diandra will eat
is human.
"Death" comes up.
Diandra
imagines a friend's will
stating
she has to eat him.
portrays herself holding an invisible arm,
chewing,
lightly.
Abby delights! She has news! "Have you heard!?"
"you can now turn yourself into a diamond!"
"that's exactly what I want to do."
someone else starts talking
but I'm still listening,
staring,
her feet
tired from
heels.
she goes on.
she'd shave a piece of it,
give away the diamond made of her
to all of her friends.
"Oh wouldn't that be sweet!"
she chuckles and sighs.
I'm intent,
drawn away from
missing
them.
I'm imagining
I'd purposely put her shard
in a place where it were
unprotected and
vulnerable,
forcing
contemplation, care,
concentration, concern,
consistence,
invisible containment,
crystalline
in the light.
Give it away.
love.
I'm in love.
I'm in love with so many.
The dancing queen
Pheonix
asks "won't you dance with me,
hun?"
dances modern.
sings along
to Talking Heads.
says,
"first step: walk.
second step: dance.
third: talk to friends.
fourth: . . .party!"
sounding wise
and overfilled by energy.
Unknown
its already come to an end,
she grins but is saddened,
tucking her chin as if to hide her lie.
Her father tells
how she danced under a disco ball
New Year's Night,
for four hours.
She jumps high
as an exclamation point
and leaves not knowing
she's the last life of the party.