For Padre, if he chooses to read it

A son to poor school teachers
bluegrass on a ledge slapping
his knee, a son with mud caked
on his legs, a son pickled bright
laryngitis, on a sunrise Washington
State rose from its evergreen stoop
birdcalls chanting distress signals

"We'll all float on alright"

us writers thinking like we've
somehow atoned for our sins, somehow
the sanctity of the age, future'd-hands,
do bliss hereby sing this point forward
in Autotune.

But the wrens still wrench me from
my sit, and it's all different how we
got to intersections in our lives. let
them in shouts the longhair in my head
screams balconies
family college kids, the warmth only
ice and dew and it's June and the days
are long. Glory to thy name, thy will
be done.

Lies, Believing in them

Visions of the evergreen speak clarity
to you, the sun pouring over Seattle
cement like honey, the I-5 congestion, toxic like
fire eating cardboard, mice hide in your walls and as
you speak they climb

out of your eyes.

Meanwhile my radio dial is transfixed like Sauron
on pop-music misery, tobacco stains on these turn-hugging fingers,
the Patriarch smiles from his landfill Sinai, acting like
a fool I do for you.

And when we're alone the
angels weep all sentimental,
the demons they jump
from their bar-stools, winged
piglets around us are silly games,
our souls in the shuffle only a game
too.

So then, reader, I have a question.
What do we do with Indian Elephants
stuck in our parlor rooms, too small to
eradicate, yet too large to let be?

"Partners in Crime" take note.