Vines

I want to be smothered in blackberry and ivy in the inebriated drips of this honey thick heat,
Every barbed tendril puncturing my stifled body,
Oozing my sticky-sweet juice, slathering your whole.
Cover my all, take me in!
It seems all I ever learnt of love is how to succumb.

Inspired!

Summer’s Salts

There was nothing but summer there,
daydreams and miracles in ragged hills strewn like teddy bears 

with seams ripped open wide, thunderhead cotton exploding out
thistle in the sky, songs in our mouths.

Every inch of river new as I
carving curves in banks like exercise

        

The sun hid behind the moon
bashful it’s radiance could not compete

with eclipse-red lips, sundresses

breeze brought kisses and big sunglasses…

 

And hitting high in the afternoon, there

were we, strings, vibrating

and still,

hot

air

 

nothing could touch what was

so full; 

humidity so thick

and bosoms

uncooled

and souls, how we beamed

in the half light of the interrupted sun

we came undone and back again

and saw ellipses in holes by pins

 

the friends,

they know 

how slow summer feels,

with drips beading and falling from behind knees

and bits of cotton that drifts from tree to tree

and me, I was completely taken, and given back

so I could do it all again with similar results:

riding green sloping hills on river’s edge

and sweating summer’s salts.

 

 

Dumpers and Intruders

These long, hot days, at the back door of summer, make for an altered landscape that mystifies me. The corn gets so tall that country roads, normally open with vast views of the smoggy horizon and distant subdivisions, become halls, decked in emerald paint, with only a view of the sapphire sky and the onyx mirage of carpet.

I can see why corn is such a fulcrum for a great horror movie. A farmer only has to water it until it’s time to tear it down. God only knows what can be going on inside that dense, short forest during that time.

When I was passing by a field the other day, I saw a dirty, run-down, brick colored Taurus parked along side of the road. The man was forcing down the trunk lid, and some eerie thoughts crept into my mind. I suppose farmers find a lot of freaky shit in those corn fields once harvest comes. And I’ll bet over the decades many a bloated body has been found within . If I were a killer, I suppose a corn field might buy me some time. So I guess one could say this is their favorite time of year.

There’s never been a body found on my father’s farm that I know of. There’s been trash dumped, some vandalism, theft, drunk drivers running into things, and a few break-ins. It’s a mystery how the drunk drivers got there (more than once). The farm is situated on a road that no one would travel unless they lived thereabouts. It is not a thoroughfare by any means.

Strange how a country home can be broken into more than a few times, but I have never once experienced a burglary for myself. We never lived on that farm. We’ve always lived in a neighborhood. I can imagine the sense of violation that occurs when somebody has had their home invaded.

But I am stepping outside of conventional thinking to wonder why it feels so bad to be violated.

Is it privacy boundaries? Is it fear of bodily harm?

I  understand a loss of possessions causes a disturbance and inconvenience, but what I am scrutinizing is the feeling as if someone has crawled inside and ripped out your confidence. Or the feeling that someone is still watching you.

How is the feeling different if a family member sneaks into your room and goes through your things, or if a stranger goes through your things? The first elicits anger and betrayal, the second, a foreign feeling akin to rape emerges simply because you don’t know them and they don’t know you.

Chances are, they were not looking into your stuff as a means to know you better or gather information to plan a character attack. No, they just wanted your “stuff”.

So why does it feel so weird? It is merely an uninvited guest, who helped themselves to all your most expensive things.

Does anyone care to explain with great precision and more excellent wording than I can muster, the feeling when your home has been burglarized?