wyrdwind

First Blush

It’s the fever green sweltering

in the wake of torrential rains, lethal flood planes,

the savage gasp of our fleeting spring, tuft and tooth and blade,

and She’s no soprano, that there’s a big boom, a two hand swing,

superbloom incoming,

a mounting riotous scream, every color conceived, fuck your allergies,

hurry, hurry, hurry, bat, moth, bird, wasp, and bee,

before the heat, our bone bleached dire straits,

salted raw where an ancient sea

evaporated. This

is the hottest desert in the world. 54.44 degrees Celsius

for weeks consecutive. Fifteen minutes before you stroke out.

No one sensible lived here year round, but for now,

it’s the open bedroom window, soft breath on willows,

silk pillows, down duvet crinkle and wind chimes, birdsong,

moody mountains—an unseasonably misty dragon’s mouth,

hills washed of creosote come alive, fresh and tender

as the swollen waft of a woman’s first musk,

or a man’s first full stubble, equally adorned, one wants

for a well-matched dance partner

or else hit the irons. I always said

if deadlift day don’t give you

first date butterflies,

that bar ain’t heavy enough.

Hips down. Back straight.

Gimme tempo with my bass.

Pull.

Ravens Mate for Life Too

The regional custom

is for committed couples to form

an altar of sorts, a cubby hole hearth

of their unity within the home. More

elaborate as time wears on, inside

are two skeletons, often in wedding attire,

candles and neon blooms, classic marigolds,

or sometimes more goth. Tequila and baubles.

In these parts,

Halloween, Samhain, All Saints, Dia de Muertos, all

rolled into one, so important we’ve got

twelve foot skeletons, horror gore, unlucky symbols galore

all through the year. Many

October anniversaries. Funeral lilies, zombies,

black Christmas trees and purple lights. Mardis Gras beads.

It’s one aesthetic

bikers, Mexicans, white trash, assorted immigrants,

and bar bums all get behind. Don’t ask me why. Shit,

our best restaurant is called Voodoo Cove. Got Maman Brigitte

lookin’ down with her tits out. It’s tacky and peculiar, but I guess

expired Tupperware dregs trapped in a locked car

can still develop a culture.

Casualties

One early morning,

during our usual dawn chitter,

she texted me about her dream

where every room in her house

was painted bright and bold colors,

saturated shades she’d never dare while awake,

white light poured

through the windows and doors.

She forgot soon after. Some delayed awakening

for my safekeeping. Another feather

waiting in my wings.

His father

didn’t attend the service.

Said there was no point.

He did allow

my black on black wooden quatrefoil frame

glimpsing golden dandelions

some blown away,

painted to include

birth and death date.

Unobtrusive

among the aggressively neutral color scheme, a rental,

hospital clean. Nothing out of place. No suggestion

of children.

Said in his dream,

they wept over a casket, and their son came

to say hey,

that isn’t me. Somehow

took that to mean he had a second son

…somehow, somewhere, accidentally.

And me, well I call a spade a spade.

Typically, puberty and early twenties

are treacherous waters for boys

in specific ways. This is when you most expect

to see suicide.

If it was a gunshot, it was his first

true heartbreak, bereft the skirt

of his mommy—if indeed he ever sheltered there—

somewhere between, for example,

Mama’s Golden Boy and Man’s Man, and the deceased

didn’t feel seen or heard by his family,

the pain,

the mess,

is the point.

There is a second frame, identical,

amid my general cacophony, a gallery collection,

constellations of memories, and I think

about all the stubborn fluffs thrust up, casting motes

over the city’s poison laden parks, where it only takes

one good rain

and for staff to fall behind

on their butchery for a couple days

for those nutrient dense cleansers to regenerate

from the smallest piece of their deep taproots

and try again. Pop off. That’s strong medicine. And since

I know a thing or two

about what a sensitive and destructive

boy into shonen anime would’ve thought cool,

there is a rainbow obsidian nogitsune amulet,

a spirit

known for its mischief and malevolence.

Enrichment

My favorite cologne,

if I’m ever bothered

to wear something so pungent—

I prefer the mellow intimacy of oil—

is Obsession by Calvin Klein,

particularly as it soaked

an old leather armchair I slept in as a child

when I wanted to feel held.

Fun fact—my nephew enjoyed this—

it is used by field scientists

to attract big cats

and/or repel everything else. It mimics

mating pheromones. Those felines

become infatuated

with whatever you spray it on.

Big teeth hundreds pounds rubby rubs,

loud snuffing. Chuffs. A happy whoops

depending on context. The zookeeper’s friend.

For some reason it reminds me, way back,

we were made to clean and paint

an entire dorm complex Navajo White.

Oh we found all kinds

of weird shit. Walls crusted with booger flakes,

gobs of stale jizz behind light socket plates,

an enormous beehive in an attic, frenetic impressionist thick,

dripping globs of insects from the ceiling, burst

into swarming wings. Students thought

it was haunted. Gusgus shit his pants.

But what took the fuckin’ cake

was this otherwise prim and nondescript room

where we were like oh thank god this one’s normal.

Well,

behind the sliding, mirrored closet doors,

in blood red

beneath a jagged cross, a frantic block

of scribbles. A boy’s name over and over and over,

other smudged and smeared words, half digested sentences,

furious regurgitation,

I WANT HIM I WANT HIM I WANT HIM. Etc.

Yeah. The entire surface.

What’s worse,

I’d fuckin’ met the guy like

meh

he was okay. I had his number even, but

that’s Satan talkin’. I left that mess

for someone else to find. Bless her soul. I offer

an affirmation:

if you ain’t scratchin’ Moby Dick madness

in howl font in secret shrines,

you’re fuckin’ fine,

we gonna be alright.

Solitary Creatures

They’re endangered,

the largest and most reserved

big cats. Amur tigers. One step

above critical due to conservation efforts.

Poaching and habitat destruction, the usual.

They require hundreds of square miles, each,

of taiga forest in the snow-deafened subarctic

to find prey and maintain balance.

Without helicopters and such

you’d go your entire life and never

see one in person. They scarcely even find each other.

Scientists, because the human males

of today would never, could not fathom,

as usual believed them to be asocial

and ruthless. But

upon monitoring a rare pair

of male and female blips

from a safe distance, they saw

evidence of something else.

He entered the heart of her range

and stayed there.

Groomed, lounged, shared kills, showed

affection. Care.

Then,

her light wandered to an upper edge

in search of a meal

and stopped.

His followed up and came back,

completely still

for three days.

He left.

The scientists

found her dead.

Stricken with dismay,

they investigated, trying hard

to piece together

what went wrong. But

there were no bite or claw marks,

no signs

of a struggle,

also no indication

of impending cubs. He hadn’t mounted her.

Her cause

of death had been vehicular trauma. A car.

He had gone, expended maximum effort,

to drag her corpse from the road,

return it to her home, without so much

as breaking her skin, and just lay beside her

without food or water, a 500 pound

apex predator. She was wholly

unmolested, a fallen queen, where

could they possibly have been going

in such a hurry

that it was worth her life.

Like I said,

a human male would never.

They were so careful

not to call it love.

Way to a Woman’s Heart

Make space for me in your garden,

by your bed or bathtub, above

a writing desk, anywhere

deep in thought. Save a seat

on your camping trip. Write my name

on a seasoned log. Tend the fire.

Suitable offerings include:

whole roasted hazelnuts in dark chocolate,

tiramisu or any pale vanilla dessert

with espresso powder on top in a pinch. Almond

croissants stuffed with almond paste.

Cast iron anything no matter how random,

cattle and gremlin bells, wild mica and quartz

and odd pebbles you found on a walk, good shapes,

bones, other such minor and inspired gifts,

fire,

plants.

I like trips to petting zoos, niche museums,

just fucking off into woods or mountains,

have I mentioned I love hair,

the more spirited the better, and I love

me some Behavior,

especially on a fanciful and skittish man,

I’m sayin’ his OCEAN heavy on the O and N,

and don’t worry, mama’s intense, a beast even,

but she’s benevolent, oh I’ll gobble up

your odd. Man do the song and dance,

and woman decide if she like all that ruckus,

your funny movements,

your pretty sounds.

I know

there’s a good boy in there somewhere

and I’ll find him

if I gotta blow your back out,

lick red wine from your mouth,

there’s that iron,

a prickle of salt. Papa knows

I’m a gourmand. Share my

crisp 100% barley malt—Singha

pairs well

with spicy dishes, like scalp sweat

ears wet hot. Sichuan pepper, painted kernel

Indian corn, cherry or apple smoke salt,

paprika and chipotle. Long noodles.

Garlic. Onions.

Butter. You know what,

food.