Wrightings

 Metaphors and definitions Ancestors are dangerous. They share  their DNA strands that strangled weaker  links, a viper coiled to strike and constrictor  coiled around. Familiar landscapes not trees  but bushes rotting in a swamp. The fruit small  and imperfect. Long hair swinging in the lust  of msn, you are not their invitation, you are comfort  and ease of care. Brush and twist with no worries.  Strength is standing on the edge of the fifth story  school roof looking down at the parking lot below  thinking whose car would be crushed by the fall.  Being human on stage with an audience of five  hundred peer advocates listening to poetry  about homelessness beats the ancestral drum.  Lub dub, Lub dub, Lub, dub. And we are family.

  She hunts at night Palmetto bugs, those creepy crawlers  natures recycler and your worst nightmare roaches the size of cigar butts that can fly  She smells them Their acrid pheromones  Through walls where they nibble  On moist paper or food crumbs They’ve gathered to save for their egg sack of young that will hatch soon She finds and kills them my Cheweenie-terrier is an exterminator  but as they lay dying she invites me along wakes me in the middle of the night to gather their belly up bodies and flush them down the toilet so we can go back to bed https://www.planetnatural.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/palmetto-bug-920x518.jpg

listen to the white noise a  high pitched buzz like the sound of little boys playing with their toys whispering about their fuzz Listen to the white noise girls maintain their poise play about what life does Like the sound of little boys discovering all the joys listen to the white noise what girl or boy outdoes like the sound of little boys that hums beneath what no one was listen to the white noise like the sound of little boys of bodies waking just because one day each may destroy the static swells, a steady noise

 Internal conversations  I used to argue with her mercilessly  I usually won or at least she’d let me think I had I used to question her morals clause “Where is it written?” “Who was its influencer?” She came up with some of the craziest ideas; “Travel until you find where you belong, Help everyone you meet,  Trust until you’re hurt.” “Life’s an adventure,” she said. “I need to live to be adventurous,” I replied.  It often ended badly. “Oh, but the memories you’ll have!” She insists.

  Nicknames Pumpkin round and orange  Dented here and there  Sitting in its own rot Tiger striped in orange Ferocious and wild Pacing in a cage Colorful Nicknames  Told me who to be

  I was three picking blueberries on the edge of the wood. We weren’t far from town in fact town may have grown to there by now but I was sitting amongst the blueberry bushes one in the pail two in my mouth when momma bear came out to join me. Mom became aware, slowly backed away, and called to me “Just stay still, I’m right here,” as the bear sat not five feet from my and began to eat berries.  Suddenly another rustle on the edge of wood and a cub appeared, then another, momma bear rose, galloped toward them, chasing them back into the wood with a crash of branches snapping.  But neither mother of me got the tattoo, instead my ex wife as part of our separation got a colorful memory inked on her upper arm, a bear class image of sunset or sunrise in the wood where she longs to live.