Shel Graves' Sensorium

Taste: sourdough; toast with strawberry jam Sound: boiling kettle; whorls Smell: cinnamon toast  Sight: body folded, nicks, cuts, shearing a sheep; wet, curly fur; apple blossoms; cherry blossoms; delicate pink petals  Touch: matted fur; oily wool  Extra: humanity; Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguru; running with Shetlands A jolt of joy: cinnamon rolls  Grateful for: feet

A Jolt of Joy  Morning coffee,  A picture of  Shelties leaping over a Sheltand banner, My bat robe,    Sam’s home!  Look a sheltie!  Afternoon coffee ( I remembered to bring something hot),  Look a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel! Gold ring shines in the morning light, Gold leaves shine in the afternoon light, Mary Shelley’s eyes,  Tish’s nose,  Lily’s playing fetch,  A poem by Margaret Atwood,  A story by Margaret Atwood, Red velvet, This is just a list, Of delight.

Drinking Apricot Nectar  Once upon a summer,  In the sun upon the long grass,  I lay on my stomach in the side yard,  Emerald green, Azure blue, Warm skin, but not hot.  I considered a nap,  Already, Tish sleeping on my right, Lily snoring on my left,  Belly walrusing into the earth,  Hair caked with golden brown dye, Waiting for time to pass.  I watched an ant carry a fly corpse,  Across my keyboard, heard soft depressions,  Listened to a child’s high-pitched wailing,  Felt tiny flies upon my skin and  A soft touch to my heel, Exhaled a — heh — breath.  I felt all my money evaporating, Waiting for life to flow back to me, Thinking about timespan,  Back aches, Dirty teeth, All of the things that life offers.

Troubled by the News  Future poetry  Written ahead  Of 365 days  Of trouble  And troubled,  And troubling.  Working Monday,  Wanting rest,  Wanting sleep.

Wanting  Belly rubs, out of doors, and food,  Snarling in play, a fox toy at her feet,  Excited for life, but snuggling,   Little snoozing noises,  Ready then, for rest and sleep,   Full, at last, of all of these needs,   Knowing now, their desires can be met.

Dreaming   Barking in her sleep,  The holiday over, Monday rises again, I may not fail.  Empty Spaces.  I fall behind, The scab itches terribly, Scratch it again, A bug bite, from days ago.  Still here. Now.  Everyone’s irritated over nothing, It will be OK, the man says, Dismissively to the woman,  Holding the protest sign.  “Why then, am I here?”  Forty-eight years of age on a Saturday,  Reading sci fi stories and dog training,  Both attempts to communicate, But we’re no longer doing it.  Waking.

Taste: spicy tomato  Sound: Taylor Swift’s Folklore   Smell: sea mist and violet  Sight: cherry blossoms blooming on ancient trees; tails wagging Touch: biting into sourdough toast; silky fur, bunny soft; tank tops and shorts Extra: fully spring A jolt of joy post-bath zoomies  Grateful for: brunch with friends

Sitting on the Red Couch  I ate dark chocolate with coconut yesterday, I slept deeply eating dreams of well-fed dogs, Tomorrow I celebrate my chocolate anniversary.  I grow long and unruly hair,  Down to my collarbones grown, Perhaps it was always unruly, though.  I change my body forever in one day,  I did something I wanted changed,  Now I feel it scabbing over forever.   I am sharing myself with the world,   I am not with the world shared,  Not the personal, only my academic self.  Tish’s head lies on my writing left wrist.  On my right wrist, Lily's head lay, And still, beneath these soft pressures, I am writing.

Save the Date   Someone shouted, “Fire!”  From her seat on the red couch.  Dogs on either side barking at the window,  The siren whoop, whoops, and red and blue lights flash.  The woman left her car and lay face down on the grass,  Knees touching. Legs splayed. Cold. Hungry.  Taylor Swift songs in her mind, very catchy,  They distracted her from her sorry situation.  Less than 120 pounds, painful joints, forgotten medication,  Surrounded by demanding men with guns and everything aflame.  She will have to schedule an uncomfortable appointment,  To fix this. But who? Can see her, see her, now?

Dog Heart Skirt  I’m sitting cross-legged in the backyard under the cherry tree,  Lily in my lap, soft fur on her rounded back, and Tish pressed to my flank,  The laptop teeters perched on my knee, Hair growing long from summertime quarantine,  Feeling her weight — all 13 pounds, Sitting in stillness listening to the sound of a passing jet.

Fast Zombies  Was the dream I had last night original?  Or, the idea a stale zombie trope?  It’s a little Children of Men, a little The Quiet Place.  Also, scenes from the video game I played last night.  You are lying in the hospital bed with  Nobs of knotted flesh above you,  Which come to life as you examine them, The dead man runs and chases you and them. Infection spreads and they tell us not to be afraid. But we’ve all seen these movies before.

New Location!  Outside in the backyard.  Lying on my belly.  Feet up.  Soles to air.  Knees pressed into earth.  Lily beside me, along my right side.  Hips pressed into earth.  Cold, moist grass, and a slight breeze.  Elbows on the ground, listening to bird song.  A fly walks across the keyboard.  Cool air on upper arms.  Sneezing.  All of these cute and sweet distractions,  Here!

What is Unfathomable  Wearing a short skirt in the snow.  Toes numb, bunions pressed together. COVID-19.  Sinking into the couch, sleepy.  Cruelty.

Love   When she was in a cone after her surgery,  I let her sleep where she likes to sleep, With the plastic pressed against my neck.

Toileting  It isn’t polite to talk about how they are too busy to take time to use the toilet.  The executive who pees as fast as possible to save time and tighten her kegels.  The vice president who forgets to use the bathroom, but it’s OK as she also does not eat.  I have used many uncomfortable toilets and also done without them.  I have peed down the hillside and peed upon my skirts.  I have squatted over holes on cement platforms covered with feces beside the bus stop. I have held my bladder to bursting through a bus ride across Kwa-Zulu-Natal.  Still, I know the pleasures of sitting down in a warm room to defecate.  When you can pee in the right place and afterwards wash your hands with pink soap.  I’m not asking for the toilet in the gold room at the top of the tower overlooking the ocean.  I just wish we could be done with the port-a-potties, at least in wintertime.

Taste: tomatoes Sound: ringing; chirping Smell: ripe, stench, opossum feces; cat feces Sight: white fluffy chest raised up, a pink spotted belly, a heart-shaped muzzle Touch: silky fur  Extra: wordlessness  A jolt of joy wiggle butts, enthusiastic homecoming greetings  Grateful for: silliness

Also Missing  Sitting on the red couch with Lily in my lap and Tish sleeping beside us to the right, I want to enter a library and browse books I have never heard of and may not like,  I want to ascend the old steps and smell the moldy papery smell,  I want to travel the world, going from place to place, and experiencing the new,  Absent that option, also, I don’t want to move from this one contented place.  Walking on the dog trail golden leaves melting beneath our feet,  I feel an overwhelming sense of love and peace, I feel my heart briefly lifted and hope for the future,  I feel the pervasive dread evaporate into the fallen leaves, Also, I feel some distress about the utter, unending evilness of the world.  Wanting breakfast waffles, poutine, and biscuits and gravy, I sit upon the couch again,  I hunger for a way to keep them all safe and help them feel confident and assured,  I hunger for a way to talk without talking and do without...

Dog’s Head  After the election, I quit my professional job to take care of puppies in distress.  Now I wear yellow raincoats instead of blue suits.  In the mornings, I sit sandwiched between two dogs, hungry for pancakes.  I try to type with a soft, warm, heavy dog’s head resting on my wrist.  Out of the filth, I picked these dogs up and the smell of rainy decay lingers upon them.  They smell like alligators, sewage and mold mixed with sweet paw sweat, In these early days, I still find mats on Tish left over from the larger clumps.  I cut another one off and another, these unbearable reminders of her discomfort.  In the following days, I became dog alert and anxious about change.  When I wrote, my wrists crackled with nervous energy,  Lily dog weighs less than 15 pounds but rests hard, with heavy head.  I had to learn a new trick, writing with Lily's head resting on my wrist.  Four years later, we sigh contentedly nestled besi...

Witchy Cascades Usual writing room and usual posture,  Reach up, breath flows into belly, pain between the shoulder blades.  Can I really just talk about whatever I like?  She said I should be a model, me with my crooked face.  Stinky. Grimy. Greasy. Rubbery.  As I begin I hope for constancy. In the end, inconstancy.  Usual writing room and usual posture.  Crooked, wrinkled face, slack and drooping.  Did I think that or make it into a story?  More a function of his lust than any desirable quality in myself.  Roaring. Thumping. Clanking. Bumping.  Usual writing room and cross-legged posture.  Goosey neck and red swollen nose.  What is solarpunk?  The pot’s a comfortable temperature, not too anything.  Usual writing room and usual posture.  Forearms loose skinned. Hands sweep, a sandy sound.  What is holding you back?  Usual writing room and usual posture.  Fingers lotioned, straight, slim, an...

Wish   Great starry skies!  Glorious streaming sunlight!  Copper birdhouse shining in the sun.  Sunlight streaming on the coppery fence.  Yellow and orange chakras bright.  I want you to be happy, dear.

Forgotten  The nightmare slid away,   As poor old memories do, Leaving no lessons to be learned, Fear held in the bodies’ aches.  Fear held in the bodies aches. Fear held in the body's aches. Fear held in the body aches. In the body aches. Fear. Forgets to breathe. Forgets its breath. Forgets its fear. Forgets it's fear. Forgets fear. Fear forgets. Forgets. Fear. Forgets.

Bravery   Immersed in ethical quandaries, Writing in little green diaries, Listening to Qcumba Zoo, Reading Hideous Flowerpots, Wondering, who now was brave?

EvilMan  Who’s afraid of the dentist again?  You asked for laughing gas.  He didn’t want you to breathe at all.  The pandemic remains steadfast.  Nothing safer or likely to be.  Someone was breathing in the dark.  You wished it were you.  But you held all your breath.

Taste: sour  Sound: high-pitched howling; Hi Fashion  Smell: nutritional yeast  Sight: blacklight  Touch: cuddle puppies, head on neck, warm weight; wet grass  Extra: flippy-doos and spinnies  A jolt of joy electropop music  Grateful for: my house

Feeling Hopeful  The unsuspecting cat purrs,  Awaiting new canine friends.  The timer pauses here, The writing stops. Anticipating—

Impressed  Jinxx Monsoon opens a beautiful art gallery, To people widely traveled and here see the trappings, Colors, light, lamps, apparel, gold-framed paintings, Rooms filled with admiring friends, A prickly ginger soda in her hand as she gestures, "You may take what you want," she says.

What Goes on in Her Mind?   Stuck between three bodies in a pool of burning patchouli,   Smoky, good, and aching. She's drinking hot elixirs,  Before the statue in her honor with heavy legs, bent knees, The once god aging, struggling. Her middle carved out, The rock begins to move and walk with a hole inside her,  Enter the meadows of red poppies and one white daisy, Here lie the soldiers, here rise the false and flattered women, With hands loose and skin smooth, breath flows all the way, Into her abdomen, becoming flesh again, and exploring desire.

Hurry!  A poem, written in the usual writing room and usual chair with usual posture,  Cannot be rushed.  Chewing carrot, pineapple, orange, and walnut salad vigorously,  Cannot be rushed.  A vaccine for a pandemic which kills and enforces loneliness,  Cannot be rushed.  Nothing to do and nothing exciting, and nothing to look forward to,  Cannot be rushed.  A person mired in ennui, and apathy, and argumentative,  Cannot be rushed.  A boy playing puzzles, and video games, and watching old tv shows,  Cannot be rushed.  A band around the chest, a seizing beating heart,  Cannot be rushed.  A caught breath, a full breath, a breath almost into the belly,  Cannot be rushed.  A windy day, a grey day, a winter away, the coming spring,  Cannot be rushed.  A nightmare, an anxiety dream, a forgotten fear, a memory,  Cannot be rushed.  A random cut on the knee, a bleeding, a gash and bruise, the...