my plant song man

frog thumb prophet I am grateful.
if it were not for your level-eye,
shrugged shoulders of action,
I would be surrounded by the pale
stalks of my transgressions.

you don’t get taken in by my verbiage of,
the houseplants are stable, ie:
in a state where they do not wilt or rot,
beyond need for misting or watering,
a dusting if you must be particular
about appearances.

you do not chastise but gaze with slight
private smiled head-shake of kindness,
wordlessly replenish the clay
with hungry roots you pay for
out of pocket, energy, time

each of your visits is rain

–

Part of Ringing of the Bards XIV

–

airing
laundry, dirty by default,
yes, rub it in

–
Poet comic

There must be some unifying theory
of psyche that ties the consensus paradox tight
explains how cooperative non-violence drives
boxing match sales, movies with blood capsules for actors
to spew on director’s command, gratification
rubbernecked, observing battles vicariously,
precariously tip, not towards bloodbath fury
but to tranquil, post-orgasmic calm.

by the time I point at my heart as demo of closed
it has reopened. I glance over for admiring
the great Open, but the timelag that is perception
or is existence, intones off archival reports

– subject / has continued, living / heart rate, varies / norm,

( open shut open case, now cl o(pe) lo (n) sed ( (o) ) )

it’s a homeless pride of territoriality
to believe anything. It’s not a small faked death to
catch yourself in disciplined palm, pause pendulum, warm
it in hand, its frustrated twitches vibrate tissues,
feel its desire to make a funeral and a
wake. 1/250 sec. glance , was it
blur of metal plug, curling through the bore, fresh shavings,
dropletted mould, or silver fox who mocks surety
with traceless disappearance, grass over-writing plain.

Elmer Fudd anger; ill-timed long-eared heckler of mind
sniggers: benefits of low-fat eating has me dreaming in
creams of tongue. reading about vegan, drives up spikes through
wriggling chest carnivore cravings, gasp at rosaries

release the fist, let the ticked talk, know every swing
makes the hunger for motion, edge keened for the coolness
of breeze of own range, for the heat of the rise and

–

(incidentally, each line is 13 syllables, the theme of the Daniel’s hosting of Ringing of the Bards XIII)