Monday, July 02, 2012

Subparticle Slivers of Slipping Seconds

Richard Hansen (left), who is seated behind
Lawrence Dinkins, Jr., Josh Fernandez and his wife, Crystal
at last week's Shine reading
—Photo by Ann Menebroker, Sacramento

—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Five Russian men chatter in Russian
at a restaurant table, gingham cloth,
silverware and napkins neatly placed.

At a restaurant table, gingham cloth
aprons of waitresses welcome us
as we sit down to dinner.

Aprons of waitresses say VELKOMMEN
but I hear a French greeting and I smile,
responding with, Muy bien, gracias.

I hear another French greeting and smile.
My husband holds one of my hands, then
suddenly a sugar packet appears.

My husband holds one of my hands, then
suddenly the sugar packet disappears,
reappearing from his left ear.

The sugar packet disappears again,
reappearing from behind his right ear.
I love this place.  I love his way.

Responding with Muy bien, gracias,
we remain seated and finish our dinner,
silverware and napkins neatly replaced.
With sugar suddenly appearing
and reappearing from behind his ears
I love this place, his way with sugar.


—Carol Louise Moon

A casual walk today, the end of June;
my backyard and the weather getting hot.
Daisies in my garden fading fast—
my precious violets will be wilting soon.
Tiny pansies drooping in their pots;
it’s summer now, I knew they wouldn’t last.


—Carol Louise Moon

The pie left out will turn to mush.
A clogged toilet will soon start rising.
The unwatched pot will boil over.
The sunset will mellow, the linens will yellow,
the dog-do will need to be flushed.
The end of these things… not so surprising.
You may not find that four-leaf clover.

Copper Eyes
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis

—Trina Drotar, Sacramento

today at the museum of contemporary art,

the stink of last night’s skunk faded
into a light spectrum on two walls
that vibrated as cars drove south
away from town, and a woman told
how the light is best when the sun
is directly in front of the slitted opening


—Trina Drotar

Inside the gazebo, along the east-facing wall
hangs a map onto which marks
in shades of pomegranate, blueberry, mango,
and purple grapes had been made. 
Thin lines traverse north/south along creeks,
round a stand of oak trees marked
with a yellow push pin and a note
to oil the lawn mower in April. 
Thick lines squirrel east/west
resembling a frightening mask once seen on a trip
to a second-hand store where the only item
worth purchasing was an old opalescent sock. 
Lines curve where land and water merge,
where a girl in a tight tee-shirt found something
in the sand along a strip of beach she’d visited
only once.  Lines meander and criss and cross
and form angles and geometric shapes that the girl
traces with her right forefinger. 


—Patricia Hickerson, Davis

sit on a dream stump
smoke-off words pour from the chimney
cloud my head
haloed in smoke

words curl across the earth
here they come dirt clinging
words dance, frisk away
like squirrels at play
brushed off
cleared into mouse phrase
wreathed in rabbit puff
earth to sky like geese
sky to earth in vulture swoop
veering, hunting, hawking, whistling

paradise cabin under paradise smoke
deep in the woods
deep in words
deep in breath

—Patricia Hickerson

sitting around the fireplace
Uncle Bill telling stories
scratches his belly
pulls on his beard
talks about Great Grandpa Zee
ran a whorehouse/saloon
Raines Law hotel just off the Avenue
whipped his sons
till they whipped him back
New York smarty pants
shoved kids off the sidewalk with his cane
aus mit du!
made a fortune
head of the Manhattan German Masons
died hated by many
what was he like, really?

out on the dream stump
another stone cold ancestor to consider
feisty old man from Baden-Baden
Lorelei on the Rhine
did she break his heart?
ich weis nicht was solis bedeuten
das ich so traurich bin

 —Photo by Taylor Graham

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

We left the Land of Hurricane, its anthem of rain
wringing wind ringing our dreams; trees pulled
by the roots out of landscape, mountains running
down streams where men afterwards fished
the waters for their friends, cousins, brothers
in the pools and eddies.
        But on every side, the Land of Fire
swept down on itself, burning everything. Smell
of charred roots. Everyone long gone, crying
“Weather!” as they fled. Nothing could stop
the people. History became wind, no breath
                 We left all that for the Terrace
of Temblors. Tympani, kettledrums just offshore
in the sea troughs, thunder of oil barrels
underfoot as if we'd mined the Earth our mother
till she shuddered, lay down in her self and died.
        Where shall we find a cellar, a crawl-
space to wait till we can move with weather,
seasons, seeding time, a small plot of soil, spring
of fresh water; for rain we simply call “rain”
because we prayed so hard for it.


—Taylor Graham

Who was it in my dream last night, gazing
through the screen door, then
turning away—a dog, skimming the ridgetop
above Winnemucca Lake; a clear
spot in the woods; Bradley Forest, Paint
Bank; a geyser-green pond floating
October leaves saffron and yellow lime.
Amber-black hair shining metal mesh
of screen projecting summers
past. In dream I called a name—Roxy—
but it changed to Cody Taco Prissy
Firebird out of time
and sequence, so many lost
names. And then, new pup Loki
licking me in the face awake,
the sun still dark behind Stone Mountain.


—Michael Cluff, Corona
Fixing the atomic clock
last Saturday did not
increase my bank book interest
improve my peeling hairline
or elongated sex a bit longer.

That midnight came just
as dark as ever
and sleep was left undisturbed
by the slipping away
of a subparticle sliver
of my
or anyone's length
of remaining time.

Today's LittleNip:

—Michael Cluff

New aquarium
surrogate children for Jane
photos now abound

No aim Saturday
reading two biographies
lives I'm not leading 



—Photo by Katy Brown