Something in the Way She Moves. April 21, 2016

     Why should I fill
     earth's gray frame
     with my lonesome, radiant self? Vladimir Mayakovsky        

     The sex aliens are all dying, Ingrid Meyer Case

Sun on my side.
Back porch in my cut-offs.
Cat crying and fussing, upset because
he sees me out here through the screen door –
still crying after minutes –
I’d better go look after him.

Worried about
the gig this evening, but
no need. Can let the performance play me.
Listen and pay attention. Enjoy.
It’s chilly out here when the
breeze kicks up. Cardinal in my

neighbor’s giant
boxwood tree. There’s a big
hole eight feet up the trunk. It rang heart wood
when someone palpated it with a
sledge hammer last summer, but
it would crush my house if it fell.

Whatever it
may be. Last August, I
painted the wood-slat siding above my
back porch – always in cutoffs, barefoot,
shirtless. It sure was fun to
be the naked painter! – though now

I’m crossing the
too-much-information
line. I managed to clean out the gutters
too, crawling along the edge of the
roof like a lizard, reaching
and scooping out muck with one hand –

my soul asking
how to articulate
this ardor, this insolent self-liking
shining out strong in the face of sure
extinction, this truffle scent,
this zest, this spur, this whiff of rot.