Mother Theresa & Jeff.
We sat on Lyttle Beach,
where Mt. Rainier peaked out from behind a curtain
proud of her abstinence.
A light dusting of snow remained
whilst wildfires raged to the North
They were earlier than normal,
there were rumors Zombie fires continued through the Winter months.
It was apocalyptic.
Tornados bloomed early somewhere in the Caribbean
and people were looking anywhere for butterfly wings to blame
but the monarchs had long since fled the nest.
We sat in between the spaces of others;
a family engaged in laughter,
two young mothers in Breton shirts
enraged as one of their sons dusted sand in the
eyes of the other.
‘Marco! No. Marco!’ she sternly yelled.
A man with a dog walked by,
stopped,
and engaged
‘I hear accents’, he remarked,
‘Where are you from?’
Playfully one said, ‘Guess?’
This went back and forth for a good few minutes.
‘Spain’, she revealed.
A Spanish woman
in a French shirt
on an American beach
being observed by the British.
‘I play in a band, up by that white cottage,
we don’t advertise’, he proudly stated.
‘you turn up, and we play, then everyone dances’
‘What’s your name?’ he asked
‘My name is Theresa’ she offered as she looked at her children, ‘like Mother Theresa’.
‘Mother Theresa’ he laughed,
‘Nice to meet you, Mother Theresa, I am Jeff’,
and then he left.
The Long Nights of Pistachios.
We placed a wooden desk
in our newfound room
under two windows
the sky caressing green
ominous clouds that mounted the horizon.
I bought pistachios.
Over the course of a night
we ate the weight of each other in these small nuts
Purpled green hues,
skin flaking off as we opened up the shells
I imagine this is what an old man’s penis looks like
‘How many of these does one have to eat before
you overdose?’, I remarked.
I got no reply as she was rhythmically prizing open more.
‘The surgeon general recommends 1oz per day’, I muttered.
We were close to that number just in the last 20 minutes.
These ritualistic little salted nuts
Therapy in a carapace
Foreshadowing my obituary
My bloated body now purple
In a casket
on display for all to see,
my skin flaking
‘Here lies Greg Allum,
ignoramus of the General Surgeon,
death by pistachio’
And The Sun Said It Was So.
Hand in hand,
Grounded in each other
We lay down
The grass we grew from seedlings
Pushed up against our spines.
Softly, Still.
The Sun’s circadian lover,
the moon, rose high
and you were gone
to fields where actors pray to moss
Softly, Still
And The Sun said it was so.
The clouds,
Wispy,
Tripping off into the distance.
And there we were,
Softly, Still
The tides are pulled
by the moon
like fabric over two separated bodies
That lie apart
Softly, Still.
And The Sun said it was so.
A man, dying in a house nearby,
Waits.
A cat stalking its prey,
Waits.
And there we were,
Softly, Still.
A coyote in the distance
Howls,
An army of frogs
Beating chests in a rhythmic overture
Softly, Still.
And The Sun said it was so.
We manifested the future.
In visions and dreams,
Through rivers and streams.
In a gallery, we emerged
Softly, Still
In your beauty,
60 years old,
Kaftan-clad, peaceful and full
Me, grey and proud,
Softy, Still.
And The Sun said it was so.
The bright sun enveloped us,
and the world was replenished.
Everything was in order.
We healed, and all was good.
Softy, Still.
The Sun said it was so, and it was.
The Familiarity
We have lived our lives in minor variations,
in subtle movements,
and sound.
We lost our love in The Familiarity.
Off-beat rhythms,
an un-syncopated waltz.
Discordant in our distance,
unharmonious patterns emerged.
We did not make room for simple devotion.
Me,
with grandiose overtures,
and you,
with your meditative soliloquy.
This disconnected life.
You sit on grey stones,
the sun beats down,
and I water the plants
I bought to show you that I still loved,
that I can love,
and be loved.
While you’re not looking,
I carry us around like a bag of rocks.
Under my pericardium,
I have stitched your soul a temporary home.
To offer some respite,
To rediscover permanency.
I have lived my life in minor variations.
I wrap my arms around your creased belly,
I hold on,
just to be held.
To heal and be healed.
We start the mornings by moving in fifths,
to move us forward,
to edge us closer.
The simple act of seeing each other.
Coffee smells,
on covered porches,
the roses shed their petals,
sending energy to their roots.
Jasmine fills the air.
A call to prayer in the distance beats out as a Duduk player manifests.
His soft palate,
teeth against apricot wood.
A deep resonance emerges.
A divine resistance.
We find a connection in sound.
We have lived our lives in minor variations.
We made love this morning.
You recalled it was the first time in years.
And we were good.