Tuesday, December 29, 2015

And Again

[insert name]

These are the lyrics of a hit, 
number 1 with a bullet,
pinned to the top of the charts. 

This poem is not 
a "suspicious" hoodie,
has not snatched any cigarillos,
is not in an illegal chokehold,
(although it may have
a toy gun tucked 
in its waistband),
this poem was shot 
on video
in the back. 
This poem may 
play its music too loudly,
or contradict
the police report. 
But this poem
will convene
no grand jury
to return No True Bill. 
This poem checks out,
so the only charges
will be on a credit card
for funeral services.

These words
possible because
while facedown 
on the concrete
of the righthand lane
at 10:37 AM 
on April 15th, 1987
at 19067 Greenbelt Road
my sternum
could bear the weight
of the knee between 
my shoulder blades,
and the .38 revolver
eyeing the back of my head
had a 15 lb. trigger pull
and not the 8 lb pull
of a Glock 9mm. 

Possible because
I did not
bet on black
while playing Roulette
by Cop. 

This poem
was not written
because angry, 
this poem
was not written
because "Self-Defense". 
This poem
was not written.
Because my hand
is two
behind my back
from having
to write
and wright 
and rite
this poem. 

It’s not true that
my eyes are red
as a bag of Skittles,
if this page is dotted
it is only Arizona 
Iced Tea
that was spilled. 

This poem mentions
no names,
not Amadou Diallo,
Sean Bell, 
James Byrd Jr. 
or [insert name]

This poem pertains to no crime,
it comes natural
contains many enwreathed flowers 
but no trees
with branches strong enough
to bear the weight 
of a black man or woman
or boy or girl,
no rope (to be at the end of),
or even a simple slipknot. 

But it does loop;
like a wandering moose,
a homeward goose,
or a four hundred year old

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Haiku/Senryu and assorted nonsense

Long time no post, for various reasons. Some are technical problems, others personal. I ould prefer to mostly just post poems, but nobody really reads anything other than the haiku and senryu and posting my longer poems means that some publications will consider them "published." So, I'll just be posting short forms mostly from now on.

PROVIDENCE My grandfather escaped a broken chain of islands off West Africa. Off course, they Rhode a storm to an Island that wasn't.

GRAMMA LESSONS My grandmother never spoke Kriolu with me, 
but still put catxupa, 
jagacida and linguiça 
on my tongue.

Working her last nerve- Almost full moon

Shrimp Gumbo- Waiting for the heat to come on

Morning fog- The clam boats unload their odor

New recipe- I try to visualize whirled peas

Presidential debate- The garbage disposal grinds to a halt

Telephone line- A constant static of starlings

Cracked flower pot the deep purple blossom her newest bruise

Halloween- The Dentist's pumpkin has all its teeth

Halloween- The kids stack peanut butter cups

Halloween Eve- The tattoo guy practices on a pumpkin

Red light- From the open Marquis' window Sade streams

Supermarket line- Halle Berry is free again

Autumn- Into a pile of leaves we fall

Fire truck- The leaves of the Flame Maple smolder

Home poker game- The origamist folds his cards

Dad's resolve- Folded into three corners of a flag


Tudu Morna tem un Mar
ki ca tem mar di agua
tem mar di Sodade

Flashing roadside in the cop's Aviators- Fireflies

Columbus Day- Discovering the taste of tears

Slave Quarters- Every cabin a Master bedroom

Notification from my favorite app- Blood Moon

Swept up to the top of her head- Super Moon

Buried halfway in a new Bestseller- Fallen leaf

Wednesday, September 16, 2015


Morning fog
The long exhale
of a Marlboro

Morning fog
The long exhale
of a Marlboro

Back of the bus
A Jolly Rancher purples 
her pucker

The TV screen full
of her pout

Saturday, August 29, 2015

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Aug 2015 Haiku/Senryu

All Butter pound cake
Pistachio gelato
Not a haiku

August sunset-
Nude descending a staircase

Growing on me-
The green streak 
in her hair

Lower Manhattan 
No escape from its shadow
World Trade Center

August Heat-
The lingering taste of
some Scorned Woman

August Heat-
The non-stop stares of
fish on ice

Half moon-
The head of a man asleep 
on this Park bench

Slow climb
up a dark staircase-

Almost white chicken
glazed with tap water
beside the red coals

My son and I play
a video game

Only visible
to the Officer's flashlight-
Dark Matter

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday, July 07, 2015

July 2015 Haiku/Senryu

The darkness of plums
at Foodtown

First Date-
Eating Baby Back Ribs
with a fork

Park bench-
The eye of the sparrow
watches over me

Half Moon-
The glistening curve
of her bite

Run over
by Rush Hour traffic-
The tree's shadow

Her eyes-
Packets of Raw Sugar
torn empty

Park bench-
The eye of the sparrow
watches over me

In each store window
the same
quizzical face

Green tea with honey
The way her eyes catch
the sunlight

Again and again
the summer sun

Left knee
the Dining room window shade
that keeps catching

Croissant flakes
What little French 
I remember

August Sky
grayer above the Temple
Fiftieth birthday eve

Bone spur-
Why my Achilles
won't heal

Left knee
the Dining room window shade
that keeps catching

Lazy eye
That one kid who keeps trying
to peep your answers

August Sky
graying above the Temples
Fiftieth birthday eve

Green tea with honey
The way her eyes catch
the sunlight

In Starbucks
noticing that Ishmael
blocked me on Facebook

Post divorce
The softness of the pianist's hands
But Not for Me

Arnold Palmer
The gulf between the order
and the drink

Waiting Room
The motorcycle helmet
above the cane

Not the Pinta
Not the Santa Maria
The Nina she moans

Morning fog
The parking lot fills
with honks

Bid Whist
Before cutting the cards
Mo cuts her eyes 

Clamor of crows
on a telephone line
Black Twitter

July heat
Still attached to the church
a burning cross

Until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

June 2015 Haiku/Senryu

Trying to be more diligent about keeping track of my ku. Here's this month's output so far. I will update it as necessary. Surprisingly, it's been a very productive month. I'm thinking about doing the Haiku a day thing every month and not just during NaPoMo. 

Full moon
The half of the Oreo
with the stuff

now a citizen of the

Carolina dawn
Rising up the flagpole
a woman's hands

Milky Way
Between the stars
Ahmad Jamal's fingers

Empty crayon box
Our son gets a taste
of the blues

Memorial Day
Strewn about the beach
Lorna Doones

Scraps of tires
The flatness of a tern
in the road

Urbane graffiti
Only the expletive
written in cursive

A black cat
settles on the windowsill
October nightfall

Deepening sunset
A pickup's Rebel flag
shrinks in the distance

A bluebird rises
from a budded branch
April daybreak

White cat
Bloody pause
Nine lives gone

The largest hand
sprinkles the Truffle Salt
Father's Day

Summer Solstice
A Father's hand lengthens
a girl's smile

There to prey
The sight of a rifle in the

Still rippling over
Charleston South Carolina
Battle Flag

The curl
of a dead boy's fingers
A toy gun

This woman's white hair
How majestic the crown
of those mountains

Prayer meeting
The expressions on faces
outside the church

Not a prayer
The echo of a rifle
through the Pews

Only the cue ball
left on the table

Spin Cycle
Abe Vigoda is dead

Wave after wave
Falling onto the beach
Boardwalk tourists

Green light
Cars wend around the fountain

June afternoon
The Italian Ice man
shaves smiles

composed of cords
or net

Cold man
A Shake of jazz to come
Free with Cherry 

Rainy day
Our son only seems to know
words that end in Why

Ornate coal man
Mellow descends a fair well 
drifts in the missed

Frost on
the rear windshield 
Snow moon

Grain moon
A crescent of cake waning
in the urinal

Summer night
the beach fills with
sound of waves

Day after Xmas
throwing out my back
with the trash

Back alley
Written in cursive
his pee

Afternoon fog
low door jamb
sudden sprinkle

JV Football
My son goes to the pine
to learn about pine

Black Hawk on a breeze
The Last Diné Code Talker

Basketball court
Two crows caw
Next game

Dinner time
the open mouths of 
slot machines 

The blind man's cane
skips a beat 

over the numbers
Spread sheets

Cannabis seeds
My mother startled
by a roach 

Bouquet of Roses
The skin on her collar bone

Detached houses
The distant eyes of the new

The oak's roots
raise blocks of the walkway
Daddy's fingers

Divorse papers
We spot the typo

June sunset
How softly the petals
flutter down

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday, June 12, 2015

Friday Follies 12 JUN 15

To celebrate the life of the recently ascended Ornette Coleman, here are three of what I like to call Cubist Haiku. Coleman was infamous as one of the great innovators of Jazz music creating what would be called "Free Jazz". At a time when the leading innovators were playing a style (Bebop) that relied on using notes of chords taken from a song's harmonic structure, Coleman eliminated chords from his written compositions and instruments that played chords from his band, a move that struck most as completely crazy. His most famous album "The Shape of Jazz to Come" set the jazz world on fire, and sparked endless debates. And yet, the songs worked, thanks in part to his wonderful ability to create melodies. Coleman was also known for his highly idiosyncratic use of language and sometimes seemingly circular logic. As time passed he came to be justified in his approach to the music but his semantic weirdness never waned. Here then are three haiku/senryu in his honor.

Ornate coal man
Mellow descends a fair well 
drifts into the missed

Cold man
A Shake of jazz to come
Free with Cherry 

composed of cords
or net

Among the alternate readings of the first piece is " Ornette Coleman/ melody sends a farewell/ drifts into the mist."
The second piece makes reference to Don Cherry, the long time trumpet player in Voleman's band and father of singer Neneh Cherry. 
And among the alternate readings of the third piece is "Not/composed of chords/ Ornette"

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Wednesday, June 03, 2015

May 2015 Haiku/Senryu

Memorial Day
Strewn about the beach 
Lorna Doones

Full moon
The half of the Oreo
with the Stuff

Spring breeze
I rearrange the flours
in the cupboard 

Garden harvest
More salt less pepper
in my beard

September moon
Ahead in the headlights 
Oh Dear

Cherry Coke
My students ignore
the blossoms

Cherry blossoms
She scrounges her purse
for lipstick

Dripping from
the water tower
Spring rain

Her fingers
on my bare shoulder
Piano music

The Rapture
I find in Revelations
a squashed ant

Milky Way
between the stars
Ahmad Jamal's fingers

Afternoon fog
light drizzle 
low door jamb

Baltimore twilight
The slow fall of a tear 
gas canister

Three AM
The homeless man finds
a round trip ticket

Stretched across
the back bench of the bus
Morning sunshine

Morning fog 
a mother waiting on
the feeble sun

On the Boardwalk
the spotless shoes of the man
in a wheelchair 

Morning fog
only one of us

Bouncing off
every riot shield
Waxing gibbous moon

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Friday Follies 29 MAY 15

So a few nights ago Cheryl Lynn and Anita Baker allegedly had some beef on Twitter, although it was more like one person chewing on some (very spicy) beef jerky. Yes, it was probably petty, although easily the most entertaining thing online at 1 AM. Of course, Tonk playing Twitter (aka Red Kool Aid Twitter, Black Velvet Jesus Twitter) went IN, mostly on Ms Lynn. All of which is cool as a box of Bomb Pops in your Granny's basement freezer. But there was a consistent misconception that needs to be cleared up. And who really is better qualified to do that than your homeless uncle DJ Renegade? First off, I've been an AB fan since Chapter 8 (no that's not a type of bankruptcy) even though her voice (like Lagavulin) ain't for everybody, including evidently Clive Davis. And yes, we can all name five AB songs for every CL song (assuming you go back to '78). And yes, AB sold more copies of "Rapture" than CL sold of allofheralbums COMBINED. All of this is as true as hamhocks are greasy. But when it comes to vocal talent (instrument + musical ability) there is really no comparison. CL got more chops than a bamboo forest has sticks. AB is a singular talent with a unique style and a distinctive timbre all her own, and yet CL can sing her under the table. Pick one, your Auntie's card table? Check. Your Nana's glass top Coffee Table? Check. Your Mama's walnut dining table with the heavy ass extensions? Check. The table where Christ and his Disciples ate the Last Supper? Check. The Periodic Table, the Water Table and the Table of Contents? Check, Check and Checkmate. Whatever you do, DO NOT SLEEP on CL's voice. *grabs you by the lapels* Do not (for the love of Banana NowOrLaters) get it twisted, CL got more range than the Appliance sections at all the Home Depots. Check her LIVE performance with Luther on Soul Train where she harmonizes UNDER him by singing some Bass/Baritone notes like she was wearing some of Lou Rawl's drawls. Check her background vocals on "Got to Be Real" where she harmonizes with herself with multiple Whistle Register notes. Yall ain't probably know she had a Whistle Register because it's perfectly blended into her Head and Chest voices. CL don't grandstand, she just hits whatever notes the song needs and floats on. Shorty got more range than Patti LaBelle (there I said it), but before you get up early to poison my Earl Grey, save your side eyes and Google or YouTube or ask somebody with perfect pitch. All the notes are on the record.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Tuesday Tidbits 25 May 15

Speck of white
floating in this evening's tea
October moon

with every streetlight
June moon

December moon
Drifting into our window
Autumn leaves

A crescent cake 
wanes in the urinal
August moon

Won't you
be my Valentine
February moon

Rippling softly
among the Bay reeds
May moon

The only fool
Holding a mirror to the sun
April moon

Blowing clouds
from bright cheeks
March moon

the rear windshield 
January moon

September Moon
Caught in the headlights 
Oh Dear

Blind rage
she bans the July moon
from our bedroom 

Moonless night
Tip-toeing down the hallway 
cat's eyes

So many eyes
on a hanging chad
November moon

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Monday, May 11, 2015

Tuesday Tidbits 12 MAY 05


My stuffed panda,
nicknamed Pythagoras,
sang to me until I was ten.
Then I heard the bike sprocket
of logic rip up
the pants leg of his song.
The logic of adolescence
is the long blue ache
for adulthood.
I blew adolescence
like bubbles from a trumpet's bell.
From my Middle School hallway,
music class beckoned.
Pythagoras sang music
as a sacred form of math,
neon numbers raised to the highest power.
All my school trumpet desired
was to be carried home
to our housing project
in a case with a velvet lining,
a conical mute.
Why do clouds get to play with
such vast velvet Blues in the background?
The mute desired to teach me
how to moan in public,
but I took up the trumpet
as a budding oral essayist.
Or to replace what Pythagoras sang.
My mouth became a bed
for the mute to dream in.
I did not dream of god
the way I dreamt that
minor chords wore hard hats
with tiny beaming lights.
I still recall the whole notes
of my eyeballs
filling with blinding light,
a bright blare
not unlike a horn,
whose body became
a balm for my adolescent fingers,
even when they couldn't
bear such brassiness.
And Miles above —
clouds were hoarse whispers
galloping from god's muted mouth.
I knew the needles of a pine
and the needles of a phonograph
could both sew song into spinning air
but didn't make the same scents.
There was scented oil
glistening the trumpet's valves.
Inside its coiled body,
a half note curling towards the open bell,
wet, rhythmic breath
buzzing into the late afternoon
with the lilt of eyeballs filling with light.
Why do we say "late afternoon"
like it showed up drunk and disheveled
hours after it was due?
Or worse, as if it recently died?
Logicians think death
has no logic, but
the logic of death
is the long blue ache for life.
My boy T claims
the truest thing about music is this:
a poem can be a useful essay,
but an essay is a useless ass poem.
I know breath collects inside a horn
the way dew collects on curling leaves.
But who collects the shavings
of quarter notes that curl
around a trumpeter's feet?
I wasn't old enough to shave,
not even seconds off the time
it took to sprint for the schoolbus.
I left my school trumpet
on the bus several times,
but it never held it against me.
Maybe I only took up
the trumpet so I could hold
Latricia Taylor against me
and collect her curling breath
in the bowl of my collar bone.
Miles above, clouds were hoarse whispers,
curling fog from god's frozen nostrils.
After I got my front tooth knocked out
I tried to play the trumpet,
but my band teacher claimed it
impossible as a one armed man
playing a violin.
I can still read the notes curling
across sheet music as easily as a grocery list,
but never learned to play by ear.
Like a man who can read French newspapers
but not comprehend the frank whispers
of the woman he desires.
Desire is a housing project
in a former French City
famous for its trumpet players.
I've truly never lived in that city,
but since my first tryst with the trumpet
the long blue logic is this;
we're all born and razed
in our red brick projects of Desire.

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Friday, May 08, 2015

Friday Follies 8 MAY 15

One of the things I did during April was revisit some older poems that I wasn't happy with. There were a couple that I really thought improved and these are two of them. 

Ode To Full Lips
(for Miss Prissy)

Horizontal half-moons
silken as cinematic whispers,
last night heard my tongue
pray for that sacred space
between you.
We worship
your red's exquisite sheen
for how easily it exceeds
the Two of Heart's glossy finish.
You know it aint good sense
that makes us imagine
your fat bottom gleaming.
Months ago,
I dreamt you as sliced halves
of fruit beneath glass,
above teeth white
as an apple's bare flesh.
But now I'm shoplifting Chapstick,
brushing rich gloss
across a canvas
stretched like skinny jeans
after a midnight binge,
bewitched by what
surrounds your mouth's
satin machine.
You've been chapped
by cold, salt and sunlight.
But a single flick
from the scarlet felt
of a wandering tongue,
can supple all again.
And when are our
busses scheduled?
I want to ride
your double-decked
lushness deep into
the tunnel of your doubt,
then string bright sighs
along its dark ceiling.
You need no MAC,
Max Factor, or Clinique.
Peck. Peck. Peck.
Now that I've kissed
the blues for you,
come close
and hum
your cinnamon song. 

( for Terrance )

if riffs you only dream
redeem what
you can't seem to play,
even if every note
could be token.
Fears even if
those notes were to reign,
some umbrellas might
remain unopened.
Supposes what
Faith means
is melody
forever moistening
a mouthpiece,
filling even the fifths
in the next bar.
What you pray
and couldn’t pray for
rooted in the same
earthy chord,
always entwining.
Say the embouchure
of Desire beckons
from a double bed
in a bitter suite
you seem to enter
on a hemp rope
of incense smoke
you barely remember,
in a lavish hotel
where you can never
check Inn.
Doesn't every
untangling tongue
wish to probe
the pouty mouth
of Imagination?
But what notes
the cursive smoke
now rites,
blew all ayes.
Say a naked triad
tempts the rhythm.
An organ swells.
The key motif is
all things in modulation,
let us therefore
praise the pious piano,
then change the lock,
to change the key.
What is this Acknowledgement
but a mere opening riff
curling like
the mysteries of
a quarter moon?
The audience phases,
fully dressed, observant
of the sabbath of Resolution
through half-full glasses.
A brass scepter,
your sax sanctifies
the fingered strings
of the upright bass
as unholy sticks cross,
but the cymbals
have the sound of cymbals
that are unseen.
Still the audience
witnesses and testifies.
You squeak,
and they find
in chorus-like fashion
along the back wall
a groove in unison,
E pluribus unum.
Filling all four chambers,
exposed brick walls
the color of kaolin,
the definition of diastole.
Smoke rises
in systolic Pursuance
of forms, spilled
spirits pooling
in mirrors.
A surprised door opens
and eyes widen.
Psalm, says the sax,
because the chairs
are full of ears
opened earnestly,
craving serenity.
Nimbus, nimbus
says the notation:
but can even
the nimblest fingers find
that cumulus chord?
Notes float
and conflate with
what was whispered
and almost wholly writ:
no redemption
but these digressions
on the downbeat
raining, raining . . .

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

NaPoMo 30 for Thirty 2015

Well, it's that time of year again wherein your intrepid hero writes one poem for each day of National Poetry Month and hopes 2 or 3 of them are worth keeping. As in year's past they will mostly be haiku, Senryu and other short forms, although not necessarily. Also, as before I'll be updating this post throughout the month. You should feel free to leave your own haiku in the Comments. So here we go . . .

Bouncing off
every riot shield
Waxing gibbous moon

Riot police
an unbroken line of 
overhead geese

The solo sound of a
tear gas canister

Heat lightning-
The flash of her tongue
On my nipple

A single blossom
amongst shining leaves
Her bare shoulder

Her eyelashes
A rise and fall just
before the beach

Her new lipstick
His barely sipped glass
Of Cabernet

Spring Rain
Keeping both of us awake
wet spot

Half moon
The sudden sharpness
Of her nails

Bumble bee
Its unsettling buzz
tattoo gun

Her lashes
The only things
I shadow

Staff meeting
I now become Chairman
of the bored

Poker game
After we shake
The strength of his hand

Sudden downpour
Praying it still seals
Cheap Condom

Even the silences
Are cool




Old piano
One by one
My teeth desert me

Learning about the bamboo
from the bamboo
Baby panda

Spring sprinkle
The gutters fill with
Cherry blossoms 

Puff of smoke
The Four Twenty Express 

Material Sacrifice
My son teethes on
the black knight

I hum the theme from

Rap video
The thick legs of
the TV stand

The aftertaste of 
Sixth Grade German

Smoke above
the volcano on Fogo
Grandfather's glare

First of April
The wind rolls a butt
around the tray

Bathroom mirror
All this new gray
almost time to die

An old navy veteran
reads Melville 

Have you always had that
Question Mark

I say seventeen
she eyes my feet

Poker game
A Russian guy tables
his AK

Busted Brackets
A Cardinal hops to
a higher branch

Blood moon
The red speck dotting
her eye

Blood Moon
The traffic light refuses
to change

Blood Moon
the rising sound
of a siren

Her hand
Learning when to hold it
when to fold it

Low tide
Footprints filling with
goose tracks
in a muddy field
Ancient cuneiform

This piece of mine
My Republican cousin 
loves homophones

Low tide
The beach too has a
receding hairline

The nurse searches your arm
in vain

Crayons on the wall

Winter sun
Ducking to avoid the glare

Beams of sunshine converse with
rain drops

lighting up her face

Serena fires
A two handed backhand

Full moon 
Our infant son's eyes 
refuse to close 

Morning fog
last night's wine clouds 
the tongue

Welcome Mat
just inside the door
Her tongue

about the pine from
The Coach

Two queens 
alongside the board
Chess Widows

A Queen Sacrifice
call from the wife

Big Bluff
The bettor tells his girlfriend 
only one more hand

Pawn to King four
My opponent opens
his paper bag

Call to prayer
The stopped bus hisses

My last line
written in blood
Paper cut

Low Tide
The ocean also gets
Morning Breath

Good buy
She said after reviewing
my purchase

Kanye West
Swaying a Boardwalk speaker
hot wind

Red horizon
Pigeon feathers flutter
from a hawk's beak

Drug dealer's name
Dripping down a brick wall
Fresh snow

Sunday afternoon
At the poker table
I lose my religion

Casino exit
My shadow keeps moving
further ahead

Evening sunset
A bridge rivet flooded
with rust

Swearing to God
The presiding judge
bangs his knee

Full moon
The silent O of 
the pistol's muzzle

Back alley
A rat laps rain
from an eggshell

Morning fog
A Prius creeps up
on little cat's feet

Calvary Baptist
All the shrubs and trees
in their Easter outfits

April sunrise
A single drop of blood
on a light blue tile

Swearing to God
The presiding judge
bangs his knee

Evening sunset
A bridge rivet surrounded
by rust

Full moon
The silent O of 
the pistol's muzzle

Summer heat
Pigeon feathers flutter
from a hawk's beak

strewn about the beach
Sunbather's legs

Three little girls
Twirling in pink tutus
Cherry Blossoms

Up late
buzzsaws cutting into
the silence

Too many
Students who missed
the syllabus

The gardener
switches her radio
to Al Green

Not New York's finest
that gardenia in her hair
Strange Fruit on her lips

With a quick-blown kiss
she high heels her way into
the Etheridge night

April morning
A male Cardinal lands
on fleek

Up late
buzzsaws cutting away
the silence

Prison workshop
The killer tries to erase
his mistake

Lorton Prison
The length of a sentence
of its echo

The kick
in her curried shrimp
in her belly

Diner waitress
The arches in her eyebrows
in her feet

Memorial Day
The flag on her fingernails
on her mantelpiece 

Half moon
beneath her eye
Blue black

Sugar Sphinx
my mother loses her
Sweet tooth

April night
A man handling a snake
In the sky

April morning  
lilac petals land

And until next we meet, may all your potatoes be sweet (and dusted with cinnamon.)