People who sit at the table,
they are the well adjusted one's.
Whatever your table is.

Sand dunes
Slate

Whatever your table is.

For the occasion
his mother receives this bottle of:
Old Vines Zin
Fussed over,
for minutes,
too many to count.

That one, or the Cabernet?

The one not chosen had fetching fonts in red
A horse, and it's master.

The hand however,
it was movement toward:
sturdy vines
many years

and stories.
Histories and generations,
folk legends and lore.

No.
They won't ever forget that time when he held the hammer and helped.
Won't forget delirious smiles crushing mints & lime
Stuffing whole fish with things: lemons and pungents.

Zin, steadfast.
Fill my cup forever and
all around the table:
Mable
Marble
Les autres.

All around the table:
smug like a Woodchuck
rubbing feet
swallowing food and conditions.
Elbows off, not always.

It is,
all of it,
simple and lovely.

Fan Mail

Dear Tina,

I was thinking the other night about how similar we are. I can't stand the rain either. Not against my window, and especially when they bring back the sweet memories.

Similarities aside, I wanted you to know (in earnest) that I really think you have the greatest gams in NA. I also admire the way you pout your lips, especially on the cover of Private Dancer.

Perhaps you will come over for tea one day?
I bet you drink fennel tea for your vocal cords; you would tell me that the lemon and water myth is just hog wash, just makes your throat scratchier, and THEN I would say 'well consider it TODDY TIME!'

After three Toddies, I would go to the sitting room where the record player is; 'TINA TURNER!' I would say. 'Let's do a duet.' Then there would appear two long wood bar stools, a smoke machine, and an audience of three or four buddies. I would give you the front of the stage because your legs are nicer. We would start on What's Love Got To Do With It, I on the harp, and you with those pipes. Wouldn't it be great?

Let me know if you can come over sometime next week. I'm flex' with my sched'.

Your BFF,

JP

Head of Trails

43.3185535

11.3316534

The walls around crumble into tall yellow grass
Romulus, Remus

I was thinking about it there and there.

Wild rock shelves
and waves lapping
eroding centuries of tongue wagging
of order

Your clothing was smoked
Sensing sharp

See crisply
Hear crisply
And shivers to touch, taste;
Those peaches you were eating once

Around you there was the shaking up of imposition
you were wild after;
this figure preoccupied with the horizon
with the water
with the sky meets water

with

Cross continents and provincial parks;
extracted are the circumstances

Romulus, Remus,
another place being:
fed to the wolves
or just, rightly and ruling

The conqueror (unbeknownst),
does long
to become again
conquered

MoC's

Tiny Town Proudly Presents:
Murder o' Crows!

*Sounding daily until the corn is gone.

Brain Go Dimanche

Birds are chirping.
It is forty minutes after eight o'clock, post meridian.
The house is empty.
My nose is sun burned, and also my shoulders.
Bugs are pretty bad this year; chewed up my legs something awful already.

But I do love the pleasantries of prima vera.


Touts, David the law maker wants to TRANSPLANT vineland from it's secret spot.
Relocation to Muv & Farv's back yard.
O how do I feel about this?

Tired.

The house is empty of humans, but not of distressed dog hair.
And the PLP on Friday.
So my brain, it is missing.
And my wits too.
They conjure up an image of a lone rusted horse shoe, or smooth, hot stones on the beach.
Antique hearts strings pumping blood like a train leaving station;
Chhh, Chhh, Chhh
Lifetime pleasantries, not woman ploughing field with kerchief or hoe.
Can I be a battle ax again tomorrow?

One day, all of those sugar concentrated purple globes will host outrageous legends,
and loamy lore.

Muv and Farv's plot is a gaint sandbox.

'Suis Fatigue, Touts.

A Bientot.

Du Jour

Lion Oil.

Stones

Inside the forest:

I once put his name down near the river beds

cold earth chalk, orange rock

The sun spilled through the conifers

I was squatting

June smells on my nose

raw hide emotions that I didn't know the language for

Just breathing and looking

Just breathing and looking

Then there is this vision of:

Souless fishermans on the high sea, battling winds and ego

Sea boots, crooked eyes

and wicked unknowing

Breathing and looking you see around you,

hear around you;

sounds of spring and anticipation

And that twangy guitar;

Jason Molina saying something like he is an old timey man

a pioneering one.

That song in your head, not squatting

A ghost on the highway, and over the escarpment like a hawk watching

Your guts before you,

you were hunted for your heart.

Captial Theatre

To find the right words, I require restoration

My limbs are the junk flicks from the nineteen eighties
hardly do they remember young RH,
the shoot-em-up pictures
or sidewalk smokes

The good smells of happiness;
pastries, prattle.

Map your way to me from yore;
cross the bridge where the Finch flock,
noising themselves so loudly its like thunder claps, squawks

Feel off the bay that tricky cold,
that hits first your nipples,
then your button.

Feet forward, the Kinks in your head;
dirty jeans, deck shoes

The Capital, it's street windows are symmetrical;
and all of the legs, young and old
are dangling like art or laundry on the line

In restoration, you will meet there and take an afternoon espresso that makes you Jack Rabbity,
functional.

You will go to the back to knead doughs that have been blended with starters as old as Floss
Talk Radio, cackling and finishing touches.

It would be easy;
little feet
raggamuffin
on the freezer with wooden spoons and dirty hands

I see you there.

The Capital Theatre
it's bright round lights are red again, blue again
Flashing

In restoration
lift the darkness, please

We'd get along like a house on fire.