The Crickets

The crickets

are back

from the northern 

meadows of time.

Back down to our

hairy prairie land

of high summer

just in time

to save my sorry ass

with their dark 

green chorus

in the cool

night air.

The eerie

fibrous music

circling in the moonless

air reminds me

of where I left my joy

and just like that

it’s back 
old friend 

by my side

on the back steps

where I am sitting

with a cigarette

in the middle of this 

holy night

along the crooked

road of time.

I don’t smoke.

That’s why the cigarette

is in the poem

and in my hand

in the darkness

in the backyard.

Drastic measures 

have been taken

with the confluence

of sadness and loss

of struggle and pain

the bloody 
crush of love 

mostly of love

with its carefully 

laid out garden

overtaken by weeds

thick and twisted,

wild and alive

they sting

leave a rash

wrap around 
the body

and hold on tight

then flower

with nectar

and the bees 
tumble by

humming their 
yellow prayers.

Love

moist,

shit-laden,

fertile

urine soaked

with the iron will

and vicious genius

to find the deepest

the oldest veins

of pain and dig

into them

o drill     

o needle

o fiery lash

of lightening

that love

Love love.

I stand and walk

into the back yard.

There's the dipper

quietly flashing
in the black

while balancing on

the sagging roof line

of our beautiful 

old, tiny 

house.

Seeing that I am
no longer blind 

the trees crowd in.

They lean over me

these giants of time

on the move again

and I can see

I can see 

the thick

endless

wilderness 

of this fleeting
love filled life.

.