This time of anticipation
has me already missing those little things
which I no longer shall receive.
The crate of grapefruit and oranges.
The ground whole grain grits.
The cornmeal both fine and coarse,
yellow and white, whole germ and milled,
refrigerated, frozen, given away,
But when it was, an honor sent.
The curried pear relish.
The bon voyage gift.
me as a daughter
Not knowing is the best way know.
My fingers flow so smoothly, typing–
around, around and soothing.
Gingrich won in South Carolina — is this a new kind of dance?
The sound bites are not on message.
is her name, little pageant girl
everyone sees these youngest girls shaking their booties
(please reference toddlers and tiaras. TLC)
Imagine, fairy tales and Walmart dazzle
the ultimate mirror,
where’s Oscar when we need him?
“we are best friends, the same person…”
she is a mini me. crying,
I don’t want to do this any more, or
a daughter who didn’t want highlights,
to no avail.
Daddy’s had a stroke,
One day from Iowa
and how the cycle repeats itself
discussing what has been discussed.
now a dog,
and now some beans
and now an opposition reconciled.
Surfing outside the global ritual
dad writes last week
this is a new time counter
a few letters
singing the blues,
nobody knows…no body knows,
you are right
But we’re listening,
your singing’ the blues
on the porch,
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The will to act is seen
dispersed in stacks of things,
the inside feelings creeping out
in action paused,
a battle awaits the vanquishing.
In sleep I venture once again
east of third and north of south,
where houses to fix can still be found,
though rough streets ride the peripheries.
Inside my rooms aside the shore.
Some boxes packed.
Do I stay?
But this is what I do,
though chances are few to find.
A neat and tidy room spars, emerges and recedes.