A few new poems

The bulk of human existance...
is moving dirt
and rocks.

Moving furniture?
A form of earth transformed
and thus
dirt.

Anything metal? Smelted.
and thus
rocks.

Water? full of mineral salts

Human existance - moving dirt
and rocks.

_____________________________

The art of reading grocery labels

Does this actually contain food?
edible food
product? what?

xantham gum, phenol poly propel malto
dextrin, calcium hydroxide,

mono-di-glycoid-xenephylolphenal...
what the hell?

this cannot be safely edible.
Excuse me
while I go to the veggie aisle...
______________________

Iritis
Latin
for 'swollen iris'
another word for
not fun
_____________________

Flirting... happens

Flirting happens when
everyone is secure
and safe
in their skins

It's not flirting
if people scream
or blame
or run shrieking
howling into the night

For heaven's sake, people
Take a breath
Instead of taking it serious!

__________________

Baysville

Village. Place where
the new dam went
and flooded Lake of Bays deeper

Where the dance hall was
and the church groups argue
and lie buried
cheek by jowl
in adjoining graveyards.

Way-stop, dinner stop
when loggers drew
by horse
to Dwight.

___________________

All written, March 17, 2011

Scratch Crater

I imagine that every grown woman, who regularly wears a bra, has an itchy spot, right in the middle of her back. Or a scar. Or both. Maybe not. But lots.

I have never seen the scar on my own back but right under the bra closures I have grown a pimple more than once and, unseeing, scratched it open because it was bugging me.

A western woman's repeated scarification. The mark of the Brassiere. A mark she cannot see, only feel. Her lovers can see it. Her lovers can help her scratch it.

But we are a visual species and unless we go to considerable trouble to see a reversed image of this tiny scar on our backs, it is as unreal to us as the back of the moon.

Imagine. Our own personal scratch crater.