Electoral

A new…anew…a knee jerk
nation. But what of the unsung,
unheralded, undocumented?

How about unswerving devotion
to the unknown, unkind though it may
be.

The lilt & spray, the roam, if one
would and will–
if one wills.

The rock warms to sun,
its apolitical delivery.

Underestimate, undervalue
under one–the one being
one & the same?

Change won’t change
the way we do
but do without.

Within.
Withhold?

The toss of a head
gives to laughter,
the toss of a head
to laugh-off giving,

the toss of a coin–if giving, if willing,
may it shine all the same.

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Sunflower In September

The sunflower’s head–                                                                                                                                   a wheel of crickets

armies                                                                                                                                                              

into itself with silence on a bent neck bent heavy.                                                                                                                                            

Every now & then your life can be summed up 
as a shape–

dark ojo de dios. But God’s eye, which is no   thing,                                                                                                                                            
                                  
can’t help but notice this
last stage of heliotropic prayer. 

Like the shantytown built   up to water’s edge  within sight of the resort, its aqua essence,
it’s all about making do when there’s nothing to be done

but survive.     

Squirrels eat their way through the garden.  

How should I turn (should I turn) and to what? To whom?

It’s September & the squirrel’s delight is greater.

Reentry

The paper says the French, as a people,

are sad & cynical upon this year’s

 

reentry to the workaday world.

The holiday, it seems, was not enough.

 

I’m sad the French are sad–

what of the symbolists & resistance?

 

I’m sad the French are sad–where are we to look

for liberation if not in the imagined?