there’s a
blue hand on the grass
like pieces of lion in the jaws
of a hungry savannah god

stupid, ruthless,
relentless eating slow.

there’s a
blue hand on the grass,
once

it stalked the moonlight red
and bled the night
’til spent
it pissed itself
into translucent yellow dawns.

there’s a
blue hand in the jaws
of a hungry god
relentless eating slow,
once

it roared murderous demarcations
in obscure intent and

now
nibbled away
we watch it disappear

now
we watch it
fade from the world.

not knowing why
something in us
grieves its passing.

J.C. Mari is a Floridian who ekes out his living in occupations unrelated to poesy or the arts. He is occasionally published here and there. Like everyone else he does his best to achieve/maintain some degree of functionality.

every so often
she asks to see what I’ve written
and i’ll send her one or two.

i don’t try to imagine
her face while she reads them and
i don’t ask if she reads them naked in bed

or maybe in her kitchen
tank top and underwear.

i do imagine she probably takes
puffs out of a joint
and drinks beer while she reads.

Maybe she is in bed and the lights are dim
just enough to read.

every so often
she asks to see what’ i’ve written
and the same thing always comes to mind
like a recurring infection
or a stubborn gnat:

she told me once she wants
for someone to read aloud to her
from “Tropic of Capricorn” while she lays in bed
she

wants to fall sleep that way.

I don’t try to imagine
if she’s naked in bed or
maybe in her kitchen smoking a joint
wearing tank top and underwear
when her lover comes home.

Mind busy with its beartraps
i give her what she wants from me:

typed-on paper.

J.C. Mari is a Floridian who ekes out his living in occupations unrelated to poesy or the arts. He is occasionally published here and there. Like everyone else he does his best to achieve/maintain some degree of functionality.

first week of may monday
10:30 am and
the cemetery is full of men
pruning tree branches
and clearing debris.

they have weedwhackers
wheelbarrows and saws
and some drive
machines that raise a lot of dust
and make a lot of noise.

slow and heavy the workmen go
through the commonplace ritual
and i can imagine in an
hour or so
they will congregate
under three or four trees to eat lunch.

some will boast of their
prowess with women and
weekend heroics
others will bemoan
the plight of ruthless contingency.

i expect a few
will drink beer with their lunch
and a couple of them may doze off
humoring the remains of the sunday hangover.

it’s nothing special
but you can’t
do it if you’re dead.

a man in blue jeans
and gray t-shirt speeds by
in his bicycle
singing in spanish
loud and off key.

very soon i can’t see him and
the focus is back on
the dust and noise of the machines.

J.C. Mari is a Floridian who ekes out his living in occupations unrelated to poesy or the arts. He is occasionally published here and there. Like everyone else he does his best to achieve/maintain some degree of functionality.