all bets are closed

stoic stance—a
step away from the
conversation—watching
himself watch—the
shift
blue to black
he reminds me—“we
had a
deal”
my cards
on the table—laid
up and open—he
holds his hand close
to his chest—shuffling
familiar suits—searching
for the combination—for a
a bluff—a
flush—a
never quite
coming straight—3
of a kind
just not—enough
my cards
on the table—laid
up and open—he
is watching—searching
for
the tell
but
all bets are closed

psgates

normal rockwell

general store
plank board
steps—old men rocking
corncob pipe smoked
tellings of fish tales
flap—ponytails freckled
face tongues squeezed
in colorful concentration—apple
piled pie caught in the eye of
overall wearing hunger—proud
tall sailor bent over blush
busty blonde and
baseball
mirror—in—
mere image creased yet
all-american
flag waving parade—post
scripted warm for a
saturday evening

we just don't—talk
about what's under
the oil of
these
normal rockwell
life magazine
poses

psgates

smelling pretty

I want to smell
pretty
again, buttercup
yellow of crushed grass wild
black-eyed
susan laying her
face up
on the sun ignoring
the locust, the corn
stalks would
spread their leafiness
desperate to bleed our
youth, but we were
unrooted things, running
wild cucumbers snapped
crisp thick wet
in our fingers, our
hands gloved
to our elbows
earth, we called
dares to the black
crow already bored, we
pebbled the old
barn, aiming just beyond
our own reach, just beyond
the possibility, we ran
until we
thought we had lost
our shadows

children with noses
stuffed
with life

psgates

middle class america

middle class america is
asleep
in her bed tonight
snuggled
uptight
in sheets that
never wrinkle
theme park dreams
of cotton
candy lips licked
clean of
substance a
clown keeps all
his balls
in the air
so long
that we forgot all
about them—a
hawker beckons one
and all
to a tent
attraction
something we just
shouldn’t see
middle class america
asleep in
her bed

psgates

sense—less color

I zombied myself
to the other
side of
the room
where
black meets white
just the other side
of gray
and there
I swayed the
silence
singing
monotone
verbs—flat
waxing the
wane of
conscience
licking the walls
until I was
full

psgates

truly naked

I’ve have been naked
in my life
once
or twice—cold
clamp flesh
nipples hard as
they pull away from
the very breast they mount
every movement of air
a bristle of
down
a shiver’s reach for
warmth—naked in
winter is what I remember
as being
real—the
seasonal sweaty need
to shed
clothes—a
hot July kiss just seems
too—easy
naked in the summer
beaded skin slick imitation of
open
the truth is
winter
the exposure of the need
of warmth
where ice
storms in the sky until
the trees chime—snow
wrapped world blind—cold
crunching steps slowed the clock
fires built with wet
kindling—slowly
coaxing the flame to
feed from the bones of
driftwood found
scattered on the shore of
a winding river—yesterday’s
summer

psgates

talking doll

she sits cornered room stiff
disjointed form filled
molded body, eyes glassed
hanging hollow response always
staring too steady, her lips parted
as to say
something
at the pull of a string
her words spit
mechanical—out of
step
I wonder—what
intention gave birth to
this starved void—what
hardened breast did she
pull sour milk from—what
rocking hand pushed the
soft born soul in to
the pitch-black corner of
her child-like body

this once gift—this
talking doll sits
alone
in the corner
of the room
so angry
I dare not
touch her

psgates

a date with the pirate

a moon lit
plank walk
back
and forth
ready
to jump ship
only
if pushed
the pirate’s
stolen treasure
buried in a sea
foaming with
tears—I was
suddenly
brave
a death at sea better than
the lull
of bland safe
harbor
anchored
in fear
his eyes
burned with
the strength of
a thousand stars as he
cleaned the salt
from my eyes
a stay of sorts
granted

psgates

the nest of the story

1 little, 2 little, 3 little…
once upon a time
tic-tac, pat-a-wack and
we chased the goodnight
mouse
as he hid from the
moon, cheese sammitch
tea parties, proper as you please
head-bumping
wild things wearing
chocolate milk
wet lipped happy silly
for our Sunday best
on a Tuesday ‘cause
Thursday was too hard
to spell, and the dog and the cat
all wore elephant hats

2 little, 3 little…
story time starts
morning and afternoon
nippity nap and
we’re rolling a
Jeremiah’s bullfrog
song along pouring out of
sun stained face
still winning the
race, tickity-tock
water balloons filled
with a tiny-toon splash of
split-splat
a tablecloth on the floor and
dinner is served

3 little…
llama lips
tippity-tap shoes
hi ho, hi ho, its off to
hunting giraffes the long side
of the road
remembering all the way
home, home again
big bad wolf, the blow
and
mamma was the teacher but
she acted like a preacher
so we did our
how-do-you-dos and
how-do-you-dos and
how-do-you-dos again

1 little, 2 little, 3 little
all left the nest
1 by 1 by 1
chirpy chirpy cheep cheep
breast fed on
stolen lines
incomplete rhymes
because that was all I knew
to do
but
as I listen
to them
now
from my open door
I hear
the harmony in
their voices as
they call
the names they
know themselves by
out loud


psgates

this air

mouths open
and close
on words that
rocket the air, a
ricochet of freedom, of justice
again, the
march of retro floral minded
feet float themselves in lofty message
again, and history
again, will be written
again on the face
of a boy, torn
from the womb
of a woman
again, his duty mobbed by
flags and poster board
attention, torn
again

I cannot
pull
this air
into
my lungs
again

psgates