Grace

Red pepper bisque and roasted chicken finished off with a green tart apple. That was my lunch for which I pray after, like post-grace.

"Fuck yeah" I pray, rubbing my belly with sticky fingers and rolling my eyes towards heaven.

Church ends with a long cold drink of water from a tall plastic coffee mug from Merrill Wisconsin, reminds me that some things can't be undone.

God that was a good lunch.

Good enough

At 4:43 this morning, I walked over the dog in the doorway to the blackened bathroom.

The opened window radiated August cool cricket-laden air while I sat and peed and farted. I breathed in deep, through my nose. It felt good enough to remember and write about.

I creaked back past the stinky hound and eased back into bed; warm covers, warm wife, warm life. I made a mental note: 'it's 4:43' it read.

It feels good enough to write about.

Here and There

In the desperate back yards where summer slaughter met with unspeakable growth and blossomed with decay, it is silent.

I click on keys while chatter dins like thick smoke hovering at neck level and everything is dirty, but in the back yards it is quiet.

Here my head is elsewhere and careless with proud defenses and in my back yard the crowd tenses, waiting for some vague event that arrives so slow it passes unnoticed.

Acorns aloft pitched to the earth from bitter old gnarled branches start the program and the wind that flicked it loose lifts your collar but you missed it, you fucking missed it.

Hands up

Ghostly gliding through cave-like arches over creaking floors, Goddamn creaking floors dismantling my sweet dream illusion.

She wove wistful, semi-smiling and full of duty, gorged on tobacco tinged twilight and carrying a great bright burden.