The Art of Being Neighbors

My neighbor from upstairs
stepped out onto his balcony
at six-fifteen on Wednesday
evening
looking
like he never got up
for Wednesday-he was
up-stairs, as I said
while I, in the garden
down bellow dirt level
watering and weeding
while he, squints
in critique at his canvas
tilting it and his head-
waved with two fingers
disheveled hair
and a puffy face
at me squatting
I may (as well) be making
mud-pies-
I told him
Happy (late) Birthday!
he shrugged it off and
stammered about-
surprises, bottles and friends,
his cheeks match my
roses.
May I see-asked I,
knowing he needed an eye.
He obliged-
and it was
*magnificent*
and so-the guilty party
was forgiven.




Image of painting By Carl Geist, 1906 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Downstairs Lairs

There are no basements in California
even so, the ground gasps and trembles
panting
in subversive growing pains, like mine
in a Rack

And I attest, above me, there's no rest
while downstairs I have dwelt
digging deeper,
while building up

Below deck, I amble
in underlying
immersion
Fathomless and zoetic

In my dungeon with my dragons
I learn to expire
and practice breathing fire

Stomping and romping around the moon,
only echoes left from the rite of passage
steps ghosts long to hear, in a heartbeat

Up there, herds and hoards stampeding
and suspend on high chords
holding up the roof by
ceiling the cracks

Beneath it all
buried in a netherworld
with the worms and bugs
the cold wet earth blankets
a dry eye in decay

Musty, misty, sodden and steamy
I will be the first to drown
when it all comes down

I reside below, with no where to grow
sown in subterranean.



Image By Vert (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.