to put on face
or take it off
Where’s the book anyway
I remember books being dust-filled
and flower stocked
More like paper and less like crap
But books don’t look
like lives online
And the pictures don’t move
And there are no pictures
Just words without links
And the memory of think
This is a poem. Greatness from Lora Mathis.
this is a poem. on Flickr.
hey y’all thinkin bout making prints of this
it’s a photo i took in march 2013 that’s been circulating around uncredited since
anyone want one?
I fell not once
Before I felt the sting
A twisted king of pain
Heavy handed with the crown
Lip sullen, toddler mad
What bad girl am I?
Why me upon the ground
But roundly the earth shook
And laughed and didn’t care
In between the wound licking
Like chosen last
The rotten parts spread fast
But so too does my saltiness
Brining me outside and in
Until, like a kettle of freshly killed fish,
I learn a new ocean to swim
The Logan secret letter spot. Where the Loganites write messages to each other, their kids, god, nobody at all. I’ve never actually seen anyone assembling a message until today, when a shorter man with silver hair was out there with a bag of plastic letters.
"I didn’t realize people replace the letters on this thing," I said.
"Well, someone has to or I wouldn’t be able to wish my nephew a happy birthday," the man said as he tucked an upside down "u" next to the right arm of a "w."
"Kolton," I said. "Now there’s a name you don’t see often."
"I know," he said. "My hippie dippy sister. When I first found out about the name, I thought, ‘Ugg, don’t name him that, he’ll sound like a porn star.’"
He didn’t elaborate on whether he still considered the name to be of the porn star varietal.
I dig the grey man’s style. A “3” and a “7” make up the “G” in “Good.” Two plus four equals the word six in one equation, but five plus five equals the number 10. The extra letters form little multi-colored mounds and Kolton - the six-year-old adult entertainment wannabe - is flanked above and below by mysterious groupings of sideways-splayed letters. A proper happy birthday. One adult Kolton will no doubt look fondly back upon from the cushy comfort of his primo porn king lifestyle.
In starting a new blog, one naturally leaves behind something. For weeks, I’ve struggled with understanding what this one will be about. The tone, voice, subject matter all seemed to elude me. I was eluding myself. Then this morning, over a poached egg, I picked up a collection of diaries by Anne Morrow Lindbergh (aviator, writer, wife of Charles) and read this:
People don’t want to be understood – I mean not completely. It’s too destructive. Then they haven’t anything left. They don’t want complete sympathy or complete understanding. They want to be treated carelessly and taken for granted lots of times.
Anne would have just been in college writing this, coming off adolescence, away from home for the first time. Just a short period alone with her thoughts brought this perspective of people – that perhaps the deep connections we search for aren’t, in the end, what fulfill us most. But rather the time spent apart, the longing, the looking inward. Adolescence, Anne says, gives us “a foretaste of the inevitable tragedies of life along with one’s early confused attempts to understand or meet them.” It also gives us our first crack at self-examination. To begin the drift away from parents, siblings, friends until – alone in the little room of our souls – we first discover ourselves.
Come call away and tell me
Of things I used to know
Of rainstorms not remembered
And puddling mounds of snow
Melting far away now
Cold and out of reach
A pile of drifting leaves
A soft forgotten beach
Spring has run off with my mind
And winter taken hold
They wait for me to sort them out
Should my dreaming dare so bold
I’m dizzy with love
for the thing that I cage
small sparrow without any song
Singing you do when
chased or pursued
and my love I have had all along
The bars overlap
like a trick of the eye
little pattern to make my love pop
Eyes rolling with joy
all cornered and coy
it begs of me please not to stop
Turn not off the spigot of love
caught close by the claw and the wing
Sing not for the freedom of choice, my dove
buzz instead with consistency’s sting.
A boiled down song is a word
rattling soup bone without any pot
My heart is – of late – a blacker bird
Heard and not seen
Hunted not shot
This time last year, I was on a plane headed to my friend Greg’s wedding in Washington state.
At the time, I wrote,
"On a plane, it’s just you and the abyss. A call to oblivion. A reminder of mortality. An opportunity for salt-laden snacking."
For me, turning thirty has been all those things. A wake up. A check in. Life smacking you square in the head with a tennis ball.
Oh jesus, life calls from across the court. Are you okay?
I’m good, really. Thanks, you mumble back as blood drips down your nose.
Life is like that though. It plays hard and fast doubles and doesn’t ease up on the serve. It slays you at the net if you’re not on your game.
So give it right back. Return slices, watch the lines. Give a heavy-handed shake after the game is done.
Wipe the blood on that white tennis skirt and hustle, always, for something more.