wyrdwind

Roses

That doctor asked if I had a priest

to address what ailed me, beyond

his scope. As if my namesake stood

so I could go back to crawlin’.

Darlin’ ain’t no Son with rites to this,

I’ll bloom in perfect darkness

if I must. Went outside, spun,

and looked up.

When life gives you cortisol,

best to build muscles. Fuck it,

why not. Every night I walk,

sometimes until dawn, enough,

it’s enough to wear me down.

And now, miles and miles of muster,

of tears, a pungent bouquet

of desolate years. Hard won

in desert. Here, everything bites,

what lives does so in spite of the light.

Oh how I long for a wintry place,

cuddly bees and frost flocked eyes,

woolen embrace and fresh snow bright

in my window. Woke one morn,

and who did see me, wood neighbors’

tracks where they’d gone.

Big Cow Energy

There’s a funny man with funny hats,

used to wear a suit. Top floor city boy,

then one day he just quit. Said this ain’t it.

Remembrance of happiness, wrapped up

and split. Money can’t buy this, but

money can buy cows. The cutest,

Highlands, and land. He’s no rancher,

out there in Alaska. Got them

just to love them and left alone.

It’s very cold. You can imagine.

When his best girl grew old,

still had all her teeth. Such care.

Daily massages up to his shoulders,

her hips did crack brittle as branches.

He summoned the vet, gray in the eye,

asked her so softly, is it time? Is it Time?

Not yet, she assured. She has a good life.

You’ve given her a good life.

Only then did he cry.

Solar Punkalypse

Won’t be no Mad Max, firstly:

scurvy. Disease, generally. Rabies.

Can’t shoot gangrene. Horsemen, indeed.

How quaint. Who made all your saints?

Cooked the last supper? The red tent.

Your four riders are these: Death

with a shovel, muck boots, and black

Carhartt overalls.

Mycelium with a barrow, seedlings,

and patchwork threads. Off in the head.

Grandma with wizened hands, knitted

shawl like a cottage garden, hardest

and owed respect.

Bard with tooth and humor, puts a beat

and adds flavor. Power in words.

Pulled by oxen. They don’t move fast.

In process of proving what lasts.

Take a tumble who strays from their path.

Someday you’ll understand.