These Trees Were Illegally Cut

These Trees Were Illegally Cut


(A sign seen on I-94)



Stealing trees just sounds odd-

Imagine a gang of tree thieves

Arriving in big black Fords,

Hanging onto axes and saws

The way they would hold their wives.



They stole you.



This is the hour the ground exhales

Veils of fog,

Enveloping the remaining willows

(leftovers)

And unfurling its ragged edges to melt

The interstate into submission.



Then there’s me

And my clumsy car

Tapping out a tune with Vixen-colored fingernails

(the best damn steering wheel drummer to ever live).

So here I am again –

Me holding your hand without you knowing it –

And thinking about those grown men

(arbor whores)

Defiling themselves in the pre-dawn.



They were the ones who took you away from me.

Made you join them in their secret work.

Made you leave me in the middle of the night with

Something swirling and unborn inside of me.

Made you disappear.



Bags and suitcases rustling in the trunk

Made me

Realize –

It’s raining again –

Off and on for four days now –

Half-expect to meet Noah around the bend.



Almost opened my mouth to speak, but

Riding in my passenger seat is my

Brand new purse

(still clean)

Already heavy with burden.

The Green Robe

It took folds of forest green

terry cloth swallowing me

one limb at a time to make me

into a mouse – warm and weak

against my giant.



The shield is one shade lighter

than the forest at midnight and

one shade darker than the sky

before a storm, and as that peculiar

sky breaks apart

over our heads

with me,

unified as confetti,

looking at you the way raindrops

dripping off of lips look so delicious.



It can absorb

the droplets left over

on the small of my back

where I can never get the towel to reach.

It takes away

some little bits of sin every time and

morphs it into little pixels

like the potting soil in the living room –

ground into each fiber –

woven into the Berber like it belongs there.



Tossing it to the hamper as one

might toss a crutch after the cast comes off –

I can’t comprehend – because the day

you pulled your robe around me you

stirred the internal and it became

my emerald everything.

Rush

Danced through mazes of people to

get here – to you. A spot on the floor forgotten

by geography and curious explorers.



Some speech spilled out of our mouths

only to fall to the floor and receive

the soles of those left over for the next song.



Pleasantries really, that first dance – an exchange

of the mutual – an awkward mosaic composed in

the colors of initial blush.



How the floor pulsated through the toes up

and up

out the top of the head – a river of signals

synthesized rushing to a grand receiver in space.



And I embraced the apparent deterioration of

my muscles – now thin invisible supports for

my limbs like translucent spaghetti straps to a

twentysomething’s dress.



We stood as if only a divine cue

could crash down and smother us

in understanding – something solid to hold onto.

And the touch –

was like spatterings of sizzling fat flung up

and down the spine.



Music gave permission to continue

from the freeze frame of first fear.

So, self-control held hands with shy

and slid down my leg leaving pools

to pummel with rhythm.



A mass of dancers so close

created a swarm sound that could deafen

the most leaden ear. Music ceased to matter –

lulled backward in panting patterns lost on

me and you – two of the confused.



An elixir of musk – sweat – shampoo hovering

between nausea and euphoria – each one a

personal con artist to my nerve cells.



I’m falling –

and to stop moving would hurt too much.

Eggs n' Grits

It’s a ritual really; my many mornings spent in perfecting parboiled eggs and getting grits to assemble into a creamy congregation. I cannot recall when this breakfast practice first began; but, as I continued to crack the first attempts at parboiled eggs, I’m sure the events leading up to it were runny and slimy. Honestly, aren’t most of our comfort food creations born from some slimy times?

For a brief time, while focusing on the yolks, I came to understand this as purely protein, and not as a chicken’s child. Also, there came the realization that some people would never share this meal with me simply because they had not made this crucial division. I can respect that. However, I can’t help but feel like they may be missing out on one of the world’s best combos.

Grits get a bad image instantly due to their unfortunate name. While laughing in the face of convention, I make mine into explicitly gritty, creamy goodness. Distractions have led to stiff grits, and soupy mixtures that couldn’t pass for pig slop. Ah yes, the splendor of trial and error is a terrifyingly beautiful thing. Only experience has taught me to balance the butter and swirl the yellow yolk ribbons into such a divine dish.

Perhaps in the future I will add some snippets of bacon or maybe some crumbles of crunchiness in no particular form. I have found my comfort food, and I eat from a bowl full of potential.

Earth Warmth

Geothermal games
Excavate the OPEC oil
Or we die trying.

Desert mirrors hold
A clandestine candlelight
Our solar complex.

Uranium house
Utopia on the edge
Us, a nucleus.

Turbines turn in wind
Cut the wings off the falcon
Fearless and flightless.

Now we wonder why
Our new wind wizardry writhes
In old ideas.

Dyngus Day: A Non-Polish Perspective

Dyngus Day is for everyone; no matter the national heritage or culture. On Easter Monday everyone gets to be Polish and enjoy some of the craziest festivities ever witnessed in the small city of South Bend, Indiana. Much like St. Patrick’s Day (where everyone turns Irish), Dyngus Day requires massive intake of (preferably Polish) beer and a rather sickly sweet liqueur known as jezynowka (a blackberry brandy). This brandy should come with a warning label telling the drinker that, depending on how much of said product is consumed; one could seriously regret turning Polish for the day.



In addition to the alcoholic beverages, there is some very delicious food that generally goes along with the day. Obviously, the main food star would be the Polish sausage (pronounced: Saaasaaaage – think Chicago accent). Usually, this wonderful tubular meat is served with a slice of bread and a hard boiled egg (it is the day after Easter after all). If things are going well, then there may be a full Polish spread involved. This feast usually consists of sausage, chicken, noodles, mashed potatoes, green beans, sweet/sour cabbage, and perhaps a pierogi or two, or ten. Generally, it is widely accepted (if not flat out encouraged) to hold your sausage sandwich in one hand while holding a beer in the other. All of this food coordination is also compounded by the fact that everyone is dancing as well.



This brings me to my last, and most important, aspect of Dyngus Day; the music and polka dancing. One is not expected to know how to polka during this event, but believe me when I say that if the urge doesn’t strike, then it’s time to check the pulse. Our Dyngus Day celebration plays to the soundtrack of classic and more modern polka music. Those who do know the fine art of polka dancing are an absolute joy to watch and, even with the beer flowing in rivers, the skill and stamina to keep up with these elders is beyond what many of us can handle.



In short, don’t miss out on this little known holiday. The party starts at 7:00 am (yes, you read that correctly), and I highly suggest getting to the site that early. The polka starts around 7:30-8:00am – the sausage is served all day long, and well, the beer and brandy flows when the music starts…yes, that means alcohol for breakfast! Tell me, what’s not to like about Dyngus Day?

Owl Muse

It seems perfectly natural that my chosen muse (the esteemed owl) should represent misfortune on one side of the world and wisdom/prosperity on the other. While visiting Greece (home of the “wise” Athenian owl), I was told that I was very fortunate to be able to see and hear owls in my backyard here in Michigan. Apparently, most of the owls in Greece are gone; and, to see one means luck is sure to follow. Well, I’m still waiting for that luck to kick in, but I can share my opposite adventure while I wait.



I have a very good Vietnamese friend here in my hometown who is fully aware of my many idiosyncrasies. The day I showed up in his shop wearing my brand new silver owl pendant, he looked as if I had personally bit the heads off of several rodents and regurgitated the pellets on his floor. Most people thought my owl necklace was pretty (or at least unique, I get that comment a lot), but my buddy looked horrified. Seriously, I’m not out to offend people with my accessories (most of the time) so I had to know why he vehemently opposed my feathered décor. Simply put, he informed me that owls/birds of prey are considered unlucky and denote death in his culture. Removing the aberrant creature from around my neck, I told him about my Grecian experience and that the opposite holds true there. Interestingly, he did not seem impressed with this information, and after much cajoling; he accepted my fascination with these strange birds.



Recently, I heard the familiar hoots outside my window in that weird hour between late night and pre- dawn. Lying in bed, in a semi-dream state, it occurred to me that their calls were sending the small hairs on my arms to stand up straight, while at the same time I smiled knowing that I was one auspicious woman to hear these sounds in first place.