The Weekly Commuter

Though Flimsy at Heart

Joa — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 17:04:40 +0000

The cut edge of a cloud
stands out
against its backdrop
of atomized blue.

Until the bell rolls
on its greased axle,
the morning’s music
is not mechanical.

Even with the windows down,
car rides try us
when they’re not to home.

All along the bridge,
we hold our breath
but the middle and end hurt so
we miss the open sea stretch,
every passenger’s due.

In the Deep Recess

Joa — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 17:01:32 +0000

Born along on undercurrents,
flush with jellies, errant nets,
and plastic bits—we merge
in an earth-scale eddy,
gradually, oceanly.

Deep saltwater swimming,
we express sweatiness
with difficulty, distracted
by bioluminescence and the rare
burning in our chests—where air
once went, we remember. Long since,
we let the tides take us.

It’s About You

David — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 03:27:42 +0000

“The day will come–and it is not far off–when the legacy of Lincoln will finally be fulfilled at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue when a black man or woman will sit in the Oval Office. When that day comes, the most remarkable thing about it will be how naturally it occurs.”

– George H.W. Bush, 1990

The Sixth Hour

Joa — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 23:47:29 +0000

Step out from the shade
and the day’s an empty street,
an entire town asleep
in deference
to the white-walled heat.

We’ll wait, with the cork oak
for company, its toothed leaves
no longer green, but fragrant
as the winding road
up to the winery.

Slack as cats drowsing,
unconscious as the sea,
we’ll soften into the base
of this tree,
our tree, so long
as we delay.

Stepping on Bees

Joa — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 22:32:08 +0000

We tamp the lawn
in soft-sole moccasins.
Bee bones
crush quietly.

Too many thirsty bees
sweep our lawn
for sips – low-flyer, insect fire
putter-outer, you wet powder
strung together, you small sting
in hand.

Overgray

Joa — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 18:23:27 +0000

Cloud cover insulates our early hours
from the clear blue of afternoon.
A muffled light mothers us
down avenues, just a hint
of the outdoors
on our forearms.

Emptier skies will swim
in our unadjusted eyes
when the sun has nothing left
to burn through. For now, we’ll shelter
under water vapor eaves, at ease
with shapeless shapes
and ambiguity.

Backcountry

Joa — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 01:48:38 +0000

Night, wide-brimmed,
settles wild wanderings
in our early
American hearts, fatigue
live chains
loathe to lift themselves
yet imperceptibly intertwined
in our legs again. Let’s lie down
by the stream (she knows
she’s older than her name)
and sink in. The poems
we speak in sleep,
thick with reeds and wet
with recent rains, may camouflage
our foreign origins. The moon,
she is a soft lens.

Earth Eaters

Joa — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 21:31:08 +0000

The earths we lure them with
fit inside
their delicate mouths,
just sized
to sift sand.

We interrupt
great nebulas
they spit
with our universal nets,
no yield yet
but gravity
and celestial dust.

Lavalike

Joa — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 18:51:22 +0000

We cooled while imitating
waves in paintings,
gracefully lined
with the strain
of nearly breaking.

Quiet in our stylized
repetition, we continue
in the same direction,
interrupted only
by young ōhi‘a trees,
at home on our crests
and in our low troughs,
talking together
over the ocean breeze.

Your Exhaust Exists

Joa — Fri, 30 May 2008 23:31:16 +0000

Though invisible,
it exhibits
fluid, unctuous shadows
around my shadow.
The fumes, even in my hair,
hoop and halo
then expire
in their own mirage. The rush
of a passing bus
sweeps morning up
in devils and I’m loosed
on the heatstruck
crosswalk. Swiftly,
in the molten flow
of asphalt and medians
and autoelephants,
I no longer sense
the aura you lent.