Pink Sun Rising

Auburn horizons with a purple tinge.
Fields of once white snow grow colored creme de la creme.
Cinnamon trees mixed in.
White lights slow strobe on distant radio towers.

And giant concrete straws blow bubbles of steam
in long trains that fade into brown clouds.

Snow soft as down falls apart in breath.
A foot or so of depth.
Ice layer beneath that.

From so much unexpected rain.

Dropped fifty degrees.
In the short course of a single day.

And the purple horizon.
The pink sun rises.

The rain intends to stay.


God is a memory that predates subatomic separation.
It is preproton. Preneutron. Preelectron. It existed.
Prior to what we call the universe.

And it is or was an entity comprised of pure consciousness.
Outward. Radiating expression and thought. You were there.
What I mean when I say the word I was there. Just indistinguishable.

God is a memory, like love, of a time, for lack of a fancier term,
back when we were still all one thing. And the instance
that was once affectionately called the big bang,
was the day this solidarity was broken. Up.
Into unending electrified pieces.
Like mothers into birth.
Soldiers into battle.
Christ and his cross.

God also learned the initial crucial lesson of growth and evolution.

The first lesson of life.
How much more we can achieve if at some point we concede.
We gain more through this loss than never-ending millennia
of nothing but consumptive, hungry living.

God had everything. And nothing,
Suspended in frosty isolation. Dreaming puritanical thoughts.
No fractured reality like puzzle pieces peppered in. No equals.
No friends. No criticism. And God made a decision.
To give life a shot. It died.

And I believe in God.
I believe the universe is its corpse.
As far as life after death.
There is nothing to fear.

We already are.

No More than a Dream

What if it was more than an accent.
What if southern meant different color.
Dark brown bourbon skin.
Patch of red on the back of the head somewhere low about the neck.

Living up north like a sore thumb blends into a hand.
People can’t stand anything that reminds them of an experience they lack.
Prideful ignorance. Whole islands of sand to bury your head.

We call it rural America.

Main Street U.S.A.
See some places are places you go.
But a small town town is somewhere you stayed.

If my skin were different, not just my legato accent.
Not just my laid back, get to it tomorrow disposition.
But a different pigmentation in my skin.
Not even a totally different color.
Even just a slightly darker tinge.

What if?

What a question that is. How many people in this country
have not traveled enough to at some point in time been the minority.
For any reason at all. Big or small. Voice or opinion or skin color or sexual preference.
Or me. A southerner. Up north. Learning what all those boys
killing each other during the civil war
learned once they got up close. We’re not so different
as our representatives would like us to be.

The greatest unspoken fear of every political career
is that all us people ever get on the same team.

Which happens the moment our eyes really open.

Otherwise, America will live and die
no more than a dream.


Bitter Fruit

The smell of cold. Dry. Sharp. A little sour white wine.
Whereas, usually, white wine is sweet. This winter is bitter.
Ice like bulletproof glass like stemware cupping all this snow
like a lightning slick bowl. Buried beneath flimsy bubbly
porous wine kept at the top of the refrigerator
too close to the freezer.

Chunky and slushy and heavy on the bottom with dirty foam on top.
Smell it. When you open the door. First thing.
The fuzzy insides of your nostrils stiffen.
Lungs have frosty fingers playing them like accordions.

Eyes sting.
Ears ring.
Cheeks are numb and lips become brittle.

A season all on its own.
Icey disposition head buried in snow.

It is bitter weather.
It climbs into the fruit.
And it changes the flavor of the wine.

At another time, it could have been sweet.
But not this season. Too dry.
Just a thick sniff of it,
will freeze a tear to your eye.