Poetry – Page 25 – zakschafer.com

inappropriate emails formed from formica and wood and eternities of water

the fresh water pump
leaks.

wool, felted and merino, for windows and for bed; are these prices that i can afford? is life for labor, and if so, what will be born of it?

it is
a grayling morning
in a southeast harbor.

“The compassion of the undifferentiated body of no-cause comes burning forth”, or; “can we even let go of our out-breath?”

afternoons feel aggressive so days are marked, of course, by punctuation, or; rainwalkin’ puddle-guppy on a peculiar planet

a leaky freshwater pump has my mind flooded with phantom springs, or; i mock my friends because i love them and even at 40 i still have love and pain confused

the harbor is slick with oil just as the stiff plastic sheeting around the cockpit of this sailboat is slick with cloud. ruinous oh ruin, i stay dry in a dream forest of rain

potatoes roasted in bacon grease make the small vessel warm and close and erotic

it’s a minus tide so the home expectorates most of its inhabitants into the saline dream of pools, briefly abandoned

i don’t think (our soul knows or cares at all about our veneers), or; bone dry in a forest of rain

typically the rain collected in buckets placed at the terminus of gutter is enough to water plants in the greenhouse

Spiritual Materialism on a planet of manufactured poverty

“The Beatles are better than the entire genre of Jazz”, and, “if you don’t like Radiohead, you don’t like music”, and other hyperboles

my friend is my brother though we do not share a braid of blood and he laughs at me for my wrecked nervous system and his laughter is of a timbre that is silent and is love

“A child stands like a priest under his father’s sky. Why do you fate me to fail you?”

Fim the Fool Man Failure, or; the words are assembled in different patterns and then employed without pay

my man out in Vermont hauls his syrup with draft horses and a wagon and this reminds me of a woman who was much shorter than i but could outrun me both sprinting and in marathon

i may not like the Kool-Aid Man, but as i have aged, i have learned to respect him

every day i am aware of my own limited capability, or, when people talk about me they don’t talk at all

i ordered a handmade shirt from an artist online and we are in a pandemic even though some people think it’s all a hoax and this pandemic has brought mail service to a pace leaky and sputtering

trying to paint a sailboat while it’s up on blocks and its shelter made of tarps gets thrashed by the giddy Spring winds, gleeful with snow, howling with pleasure at our toil

yesterday i wore a different title so today you turn from me at a mountainside stream and hide your flesh as you place a dry shirt atop your galloping skin

a woman with straight black hair who used to work for a concert promoter responds to my email seeking label design help and then disappears

too needy for asceticism i fill my belly with lentils and tea and watch the clouds show off in hail and sleet and rain

i ordered a pizza with shrimp on it and it isn’t yet ready to pick up so i stoop over a wooden table and try to put words to the bubbling butterflies in my chest

i feel a bit sheepish for my morning frustrations, so i wash some dishes and hope that a clean kitchen might warmly spread its cleanliness into my smudged soul