the plates themselves were so light
so easily 
airborne

but heavy indeed
was that subsequent
broken china 

heavy
was the arguing before
and heavy
was the anger after 
wrangling over the ruins 
the debate running on 
the air sludgy
with it

can’t think in air
this heavy

a heavy

ripened on rage
sullen success
and secret glee at scorched earth

a smothering heavy

a pillow on your face
while you sleep

a lie alone
for the rest of your life 
kind of heavy

a kind
you can’t lift alone

Early breakfast for one:

oatmeal, frozen blueberries, 
a drop of agave nectar, 
a ton of cinnamon,
lowfat milk; ready
in two and one-half minutes.

You shake the last blueberry
from the bag into the dry oats,
the stubborn berry that won’t fall,
the one carrying the mutated bacterium
that survived all the countermeasures,
that will survive the microwave,
that will enter your body,
that will come to life, 
that will divide into a swift million,
that will damage cells within you
before dying off unnoticed 
except for a mild rumble within you
at two fifteen the next afternoon;
those damaged cells left behind will,
one day three years from now,
slide from wounded mad into feral spread,
become cancerous,
mystify the doctors,
and painfully kill you.

It’s not meant to be funny
that this is the morning
that will eventually kill you.
This bright eyed morning 
full of your own justified pride
at taking a positive step
is the morning you begin to die.
It’s not meant to be funny, 
but of course,

it is.

You should go
for a brisk walk
after breakfast.

Be sure
to look both ways
before crossing the street.

Petty is as petty does,
and petty rules the land and sea.

Petty is as petty does,
does it all in little mincing bites.

Petty can’t be bothered to go full vampire —
prefers to play mosquito, yearns to be a gnat.

Petty can’t be bothered to search its soul —
prefers to read its own Cliff Notes.

Petty opens its heart
to the side eye, the shade, the snicker.

Petty feels OK
in single broken heartbeat intervals, 

then leaves a trail of mild destruction
behind it, like kid footsteps in the cement

of a national monument, discovered 
only upon the occasion of ribbon cutting,

too late to smooth it out and make it 
feel OK again.  

Petty is as petty does.
Petty does quite well;

one mansion in the hills, one on the beach,
a penthouse in the city, 

a foothold in your mouth,
a homestead in your attitude.

Scorch
earth or skin,
burn
bridge or eyes.

What you
do with your fire
is yours
to choose —

put it out, even,
or confine it
to a hearth
and home. Pick

a commonplace
for it or
go on and bust 
the box, let flame roll

across
metaphorical
prairie,
metaphysical

skyline. Or
put it out, quench it,
drown it,
smother it — 

not my flame circus,
not my
hot monkey
to tame. Only this:

if it dies
unheeded, the cold
you feel will be
forever.

I spent a few hours today
uncaught up in worry.

That’ll have to be
all for one day, or a 
year; all the time
I’m likely to get
free of the shackle 
of fear.

I could say
more about that

but instead,
let’s discuss how it happened;
let’s discuss
three strawberry plants 
I moved on impulse 
into the greenhouse
when their bed,
rotted and old,
had collapsed;
let’s talk of them

now blooming in their
temporary pots and 
how the ground might
be warm enough
soon enough
to take them back.

Let’s talk about me
doing something right
purely on instinct
and how
that small success 

keeps me.