One of my favorite phrases to hear on Monday is,
“Oh, you got a bit of sun over the weekend…”
The idea of going outside and sitting in the sun
without buildings, without work, without people,
without being stuck in-doors, without a thing to do,
without being paraded around like a fool at a party,
without the constraints of what society deems correct:
you should wear sunscreen, you should cover up!
you should avoid a sunburn—it will cause cancer!
I have to assume that people die of accidents daily.
You should avoid cigarettes, and expensive scotch,
and domestic beers, and fishing, and jerking off,
and relaxing for no reason, and not doing anything,
and cooking raw red meat, and frying fillets of fish,
and reading a book, or two, and driving an old truck,
and thinking about sexual fantasies, or debauchery.
Yeah, you should probably avoid all of those fun things,
and while you’re at it, make sure to hide from the sun.
Nah. I want to say, “You didn’t get any sun at all?
That’s great, I am sorry to hear you are a shut-in.”
But rather to save some time, I just say, “Yeah.”
a million worlds balanced atop globules
of settled wake and rain, dancing on strung-up
green leathered water lilies in rolling waves.
These beaded reflections, moving,
were a million of you and a million of me;
crystals bouncing with electric light, cosmos lithe,
changing, above tadpole, water beetle, and autumn’s fallen leaves.
No question these microcosms stand in wait,
bobbing on a clear lake,
on each movement thrown within,
contemplating nothing—save for seen,
by those who pass in man-powered vessels,
just a moment in time, taking what they can.
Seagulls carried shadows
above their lives on a lake.
Here, undulating up and down,
and many worlds away.
Wood laid in a pile,
brought down in the days before;
years of life soon ash.
This Snowscape so quiet;
Not a bird,
Not a car,
Not a sound…
Whiteness covers the world,
Layering atop the frozen ground.
What play to our mirrors
Coming to for our peers
Gains a perfect little show
Moved to smiles and tears.
We cannot drop this act
Because of love- the fact:
That we are truly ourselves
Only inside of our house.
Each blade of grass
In the sun.
Some appear blue-green,
Others appear well-done.
Scorched in noon-day sunrays,
Dancing in the wind for fun.
Each blade of grass is an individual.
Each blade of grass is but one.
At the beach,
this burnt sand desert;
Swimming lake water to avoid the heat,
people lazing on towels,
hiding beer cans
attempt save discrete.
Plants sharp as knives while walking with bare-feet.
At the beach
At the beach
Sex parts covered by diaphanous cloth,
where we sit with wandering thought lost.
discussion minced, quiet commotion-
ride, bipedal, or car from the city to the streets to meet,
at the beach
at the beach.