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Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Moonrise On Herb Garden

Wake up
There is no butterfly

Ordinary lives are clashing in the shadows—
The dandelions must have their meadow

and I refill my cup from public fountains,
to see myself when I have erred

or eaten too much print
or not enough, I never know

How many of us, open as a photograph,
a pose waiting for its meaning to be seen

remain in doubt as the color fades?
falling, pink as hippos in the serenity of sunlit days

before the football game, a thrill-a-minute stunner,
winds down to an intercepted prayer

It’s five p.m. It’s Sunday. And there’s rain
(Like a moving sky I can’t remember where you changed)

Extrapolate what you want
Things aren’t like they ever were

Great seasons pass through a year in a day—
blossoms pulping in April gutters

sitars in the duodenum of June
bright autumns bluer than Tahitian pearls

December madness, December blues,
blossoms pulping in April gutters

Moonrise over the herb garden
Wake up Here comes the butterfly

The Hardy Boys Go Nowhere


“Don’t worry Joe,” Frank advised. “Soon enough we’ll have Egmont and his whole gang of ruthless polygamists under our control.” “I hope so, Frank,” his brother said. He pointed straight ahead. “Look, another woman, in desperate need of help!”

A woman’s form stood tied up to a column underneath the balcony. In one smooth motion, Frank pulled his flashlight, lighting up her face. “Jesus Christ,” ejaculated Joe, “it’s our mother, Laura Hardy! “Boys!” she cried. “See what happens when your father sends me away?” They promptly cut her ropes. She pulled two bowls of opal ice cream out from underneath her blouse. They kissed her on the forehead and disappeared into the dark.