91

I Changed My Mind in My Sleep

I would like to make art

instead of making dinner.

I would like to have nicer kitchen

cabinets in my next abode.

I don’t mind winter when it is here

but wonder about that when it is not.

At 91, my father remembered his college

marching song which he cheerily

belted forth with great elan.

I pretended his “I’ll miss you”

was for me but I knew it was not.

I had not earned it.

I had not known how.

BK

2015

Mellow Yellow

Orbiter (around) a Paper Moon

Green thought in a green shade

ordinary

to the palace guards

straight

from the shoulder

fury of high stakes

heavy 

yellow - a knot 

singing despite myself 

an homage to 

original sin 

gracing notes played

on

fugitive skin.

BK

November 2015

the appointment

A Tooth From the Future

Pushing through 

Long root

Planted still

Wiggling and

Jiggling among

Orchid vendors 

Blooming in

Blistered dry 

Pots far

From over 

Moving targets

Whistled hoot

November 2015

one asshole at a time

I Stand (on a blue) Wave

Crunch, crunch, smack
repeat potato chip
bamboozling wooden

clothes-pins pinching
light-faded drawings
on construction paper.

"hey mama!"

Thrown away- throw away
clocks- dog days- sidewalk cracks.

"don't
yank
my
chain!"

Dinosaurs and bric-a-brac,
what's vital, you lapped
at my wet and muddy socks.

Adulthood still arms
length from us- both of us.
Swimming sideways yet steadfast.




BK
October 2015

crickets were a big part of my summer

Out-lines

The trees of Pennsylvania are

turning

dark by night- and

filling with the summer air

of cricket song taking

up all the room

in the musty sky.

All that is left are

the spaces in between-

the fringe of the pined

needles squiggling velvet

lines into triangle shapes

for me to peer through.

The crickets raise

their roar,

and the triangles fill in.

BK

September 2015

Will

Will

Will today. Be like yesterday.

Crickets, fans, shadows.

A dry brown leaf, wispy

enough to have blown across

my path, then, askew,

tried to go back- the

other way, again.

BK

Aug 2015

W.A.I.T.

Why Am I Talking?

A stone dreams of

light beams- tired

arms outstretched, holding up

bridges- drilling

swollen knee-

caps, backs of

legs sticking to vinyl

car seats,

red.

BK

August 2015