ronny

when talk therapy isn’t enough i try other things like walk therapy and eat therapy and kiss therapy and stretch therapy and text therapy and tiktok therapy and instagram therapy and new music friday therapy wake up and walk to the sunrise therapy morning dew on a lily pad therapy ocean waves crashing therapy plunge into the ice cold bay therapy single americano with pistachio biscotti therapy roll around giggling in the leaves therapy mull a move to the redwoods therapy purchase six nonrefundable flights therapy dive right in the brasilian wax therapy throw up crying in the bathroom therapy decadent cup of chocolate therapy dance in the club alone therapy hot femme fun and games therapy keep it cuuuuuuuuute therapy take photos in the mirror therapy snap a million wildflowers therapy gaze the moon move therapy jump into the fire therapy splashing creek therapy swallow shroom therapy plan a party therapy plan another party therapy call my best friend therapy call another best friend therapy call another best friend therapy call another best friend therapy go to a friend’s father’s funeral therapy tell my friends i love them therapy tell my family i love them therapy tell myself i love me therapy meet a new dog therapy and look into the eyes of the dog, and pat the head of the dog, and feed bits of chicken to the dog, and scratch the heck outta the neck of the dog, and imagine myself kissing the head of MY dog, and remember that she’ll be a dead dog one day, and remember that i’ll be a dead dog one day, and remember that i’m alive today, and remember to live today like a lucky dog therapy.

want something to do with you want love thing to do with you want dumb thing to do with you want drunk thing to do with you want slam dunk to do with you

want anything to do with you want bunny thing to do with you want money thing to do with you want honey thing to do with you want onion thing to do with you

even if you don't want anything to do with me that's okay because i

i believe i am alive. i believe i am love. i believe i am salty sea spray of the ocean, mother. i believe the poets. i believe music is god. i believe god is change. i believe it’s all in rhythm. i believe harmony is joy. i believe everything is impermanent. i believe i will die. i believe death is an illusion. i believe life is an illusion. i believe i am alive.

we are dust and nothing matters, yet we scream and cry and jump with joy, exhilarated sentient mud.

ZEUGMAS FOR ZOË

here is a poem for a friend and deadline missed—

inspired by a hurricane and heartache sweeping through the week, neither less deadly because announced—

all amid a virus and head of state threatening the nation with fever and shortness of breath—

preceded even earlier by warnings like vowels clearly sounded out— crackling forests and firecrackers a drought of rain and new ideas— so to kill the time and not ourselves

we

play piano and video games watch television and the seasons change drink wine and the doom-filled streams—

hoping we can remember our dreams when we wake up in a new bed in a new year under a new roof— the same old constellations.

KENNINGS FOR KURTZ

when ice-cotton falls, falls, falls, and the land-water rises, rises, rises, and the wood-congregation burns, burns, burns and the wind-spiral spins, spins, spins there’s no one that can stop em—

but soul-people exist and heart-people can feel and brain-people can think and body-people can dance—

and dancing is just

seed-planting shoot-sprouting sun-seeking fruit-bursting.

GNOMIC VERSE FOR MS GROSS

ultimately at the end of the day when all is said and done

there is a way in which

how you show up put in the work hit the right note

in the eye of the storm

shows your true colors gets in your head cools your heels

not one iota

when hell freezes over in your own little world amid the pandemic.

two great pines the color of ghosts streaked grey and faded pink through two square, wood-framed windows greet me with morning— i walk the misty, gravel road with my dog, two bellies grumbling the dawn.

buttertones singing inside my friday night skull, my tongue sticks prickly red but i remember honey: just a spoonful sparks rivers, alluvial fanning on the inside of my cheek, gladness.

how do you read a poem— you speak the lines on the page one word at a time.

how do you dry socks— you put them in the machine on the line in the wind.