Mr. Subliminal

Read the fine print, read between the lines,
listen to the words beneath the breath.

Sneak past the neighbors who aren’t friends.

Send up smoke signals or carrier pigeons.
Float it in a bottle that’s been cast to sea.

Dodge the fragile coral that’s within reach.

Capture sound in an air bubble, pop it before
surfacing. Don’t let the laughter and cries escape.

Winds can carry wounds like old shotguns.

Kept secrets fester like the world of a runaway.
Whispers might as well be sign language.

Red Dawn

For Emily Hunt

Don’t worry; I’m not going to charge you for sex.

Even if you add fog, nachos, ice cream sandwiches
or whatever goes on in Steinbeck country.

There’s always a chance that one won’t get a flight
especially if ethyl alcohol is in the Mexican eggnog.

Hypodermic needle dodgers in the community
garden have faith, need to know that they matter.

Watch as it begins to rain again and get carried off
to add our own sounds to compliment the thunder.

Her Spirit is Still Lingering

Jah in a Volkswagen Bus

For Amy Dolinger

Laying in the middle of a road that leads
to a lake that leads to the Chesapeake Bay
that leads to the waves of the Atlantic Ocean,

the vastness of distance seems thin.

Thin like the air in an auto shop’s paint bay.
The lack of oxygen chokes like saltwater.

In Jamaica, a dog gets run over, the machete
still swings, and the ports have cruise lines
finding new, unprepared homes to wreck.

In Denver, the cats keep coming.
Coming and going, as they please, day and night.

Crashing is the echoes of mountain thunder.