Hot griddle in the middle of oak table
bacon, bacon grease with salt to drizzle
across buckwheat pancakes, plus eggs fried
in said bacon heat. The grandfather barks
"hark!" his only punctuation to cool
the jittery commotion among the boys
at the table. He's been awake so long
choring across fields and feeding horses
cows sheep etcetera daylight comes
long after his day begins. He mostly speaks
of the fiddle to his daughter's violin
played on command. His legendary players
calling their own at dances. He stares hard
at grandboys with a blend of venom and lust.
Contemplative Contempt
Oxymoronic place kick sticks in the gut
and mind, mind you. Don't prevaricate.
Just sing what stings from informal playthings
milked for all possible power then
cardboard-ed out of another’s projected
thoughts that ought to be debrided in good time,
parked beside the perennial park
we taunt ourselves to think will not become extinct.
It's now no never-mind though rarely
thought through. You know your way around wounds
and their offspring cluttered with karma
just like mother used to fake with aplomb
the square root of bomb apart from shelter
in this sweltering spring mislabeled fling.
Tradition
Unless you looked down through that window. Unless
you raked up acorns having given up on
their popping in the fire. And memorized
the bass drum from campus lashed with brass.
Vetted friends based on claps of blunder
from the percussion. The felt vibration from
a mile beyond the band. Not about a music.
Cheering in the stands as commercial hands
clapping bare-chested fans smashed into
late afternoon. Tailgating in place of thought.
Saying Gonna miss you guys. Never safe
from recollection. Of the thinning trees
unleashing piles of crisp leaves to sweep
away into a pile of fire.