Sere

Sere
see here,
it was hot.

Hotter than sin,
at November daybreak
and the swept sky revealed
traces, as wind,
Saint Ana blew through,
while the inferno loitered along
the way gathering a static, cult-ish
hung as tense air, sacrificing
the people clung to silence.

And as the details,
our stars bartered
over-night
over our dead bodies,
see here
some slept all the while
some wept themselves barren
and some became swept up by isms,
enrapt in labels, and role playing,
naming and claiming knowing,
the game goes on.
Rock.
Paper.
Scissors.

Sere and silent,
dumbfounded,
surrounding the crackling air-
This is where we
do not care
about whom you cannot touch
person-ally.
Such as the trim horizon
off in the distance,
taut sharply to keep apart
certain matters, reactions
into lumps of coal, carbon-copied
canaries as luminaries
See
we sing while we may
hear, cause for flight.

Somewhere over there
the water danced with a veil of flames,
the ice smoked with dramatic intention,
the clouds caused accidents low and high,
the land split open its molten chasm, hungry
to matter more.

See here
the red in the sky
is just a reflection...
Starting over.
This is how
Saints from below
wave their victory flames to Autumn.

Anew, we feed Prometheus who fumes immortality
burning his precious people
in the name of Pandora, igniting
fauna and flora to flee
anywhere less sere,
less here
threadbare and awestruck
like lightening.


Painting by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

To: November Re: Remember

Looking back cruelly on the carnage of the calendar-

First, on the day of the dead, let us give birth to new slates traced with prehistoric calcite...erasure.

Secondly, “writing is aid to memory-the sentence…” He said.

Third, Robots writing literature? No twitter bots. Love Letters from Eliza make me grumpy today.

Fourth, Truck didn’t start, need a new starter, makes sense, costs bucks (I don’t have).

Fifth, Close Doors. Open windows. Filtering the light. Breathe the sunshine.

Sixth. Days bleed, the trees drip, my well is going to dry up.

Seventhly- It’s a UFO! A meteor! We are not in control of this universe?! Nope, just the Navy.

Eighth. Washer thrown off kilter (by extra ‘h’), Alex, my repairman, is Russian!

Ninth. Rain. Slow drip. Watch sky, blame clouds for dimming prospects. Real is a cumulus. 

Tenth. Parents 30^th Anniversary… all there is, never after. Under Happily.

Eleventhly, missing grandpa, working with his words, at least we can talk there.

Twelfth, “By denying me the seas”, “By denying me the seas”, “By denying me the seas”

Thirteenth of Friday: City of Love Lost and Lights Out. Oh Paris! You have taught the world of love and heartbreak, you are all made stronger. Love trumps terror over time.

Fourteenth, yardwork, laundry, cooking, cleaning, redundancies, monotonies, shuffle the deck and pick a spade.

Fifteenth. Sunday comes with a warning- of a storm-that never comes. Nap, read await.

Sixteenth, hollow menace in heavy heaps of leaves, branches broken, dunes of needles roll with it.

Seventeenth. Synapses firing bullet points of philosophy and poetry. The dentist drills my daughter.

Eighteenth, Mom’s birthday, ecard, thanks. Unproductive avoidance, errands and cleaning.

Nineteenth, nose in book. Reading. Anything but writing.

Twenty ways of being Social. Sharing is caring and blaring about “selfie”, tasks of wearing masks, wearing the day away.

Twenty-one, Push, fold, draw, brush, sweep, stay; filling the green waste on  (re) cycle.

Twenty-second(s) of rest.

Twenty-third. Mundane Monday, a myriad of myopia.

Twenty-fourth-Army to feed, fill shopping cart for one meal? Making mess.

Twenty-fifth. Appointments, Turkey and Doctor, I get them confused.

Twenty six steps lead to couch, thankfully.

Twenty-seventh. Not working. Nothing’s working. Nobody’s at work.

Twenty-eight days in, November is losing nerve, no more noshing necessary.

Twenty-ninth. Frigidly forgetting. Left frozen and unchosen.

Thirty ways to say this was a November I will now remember, bite by bitter bite.

Image By copy (18th or 19th century) after Joachim von Sandrart (orig. 17th century) (http://www.hampel-auctions.com) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Der November.