June 30, 2014
Inside, Outside Life

Outside life
Comes into play
Trashing days
Ignoring weeks
Hand-holding
In a rosy game
Spinning downward
Stumbly feet
Sweet game
Ever lamely
We follow
"Till inside life pulls back
Then bitter pill
Tough swallow

June 27, 2014
Things

And what is time but just a clock thing
And what do we but follow
And what is space but just an air thing
And what do we but swallow

And love a hurting happy thing
And smiling, ourselves give
And sorrow, bitter empty thing
Which, struggling, we live

And what are all these if not things
Fragile baubles of our strife
What choice have we but hold them close
And pray fast death, slow life

June 25, 2014
"I was always jealous of something getting more attention."

— Robyn Hitchcock, on the perks of selfishness. 

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Filed under: robyn hitchcock 
June 23, 2014
Harvest Time

Abe Lincoln liked to cut down logs
Washington cut down that tree
Obama chops down Republicans
And that’s just fine with me.

June 20, 2014
Wolf Bait

Come here honey, I won’t hit chou
I gitch you, you know?
My touch is like babies butts
like snow
Fallen still
People kill for me to touch them
Not the other way around
I found you anyway
puppy and lost
you cost me a hand and a shoe
Now runny and red
you slither away
A mess of a sheep
wooly too late 
So much lamb’s blood,
wolf bait

June 18, 2014
Death Comes in June

I’m sitting on the curb talking on the phone to my friend whose dad has just died. It’s hot outside and I’m holding the remnants of a popsicle in my hand. 

At first, the friend isn’t really even talking. He’s just making guttural choking sounds and I’m praying they start turning into words.

Drowning in sorrow, I think in my head.

Then he speaks and I stare at the flowers in front of me. Not really flowers, more like reeds or wild sticks - the swamp of Chicago desperately putting on a bouquet.

It’s hard, so hard, he says. But when he went, he went with such a grace, a release. I, I’m dealing with my own selfish wanting of him, but he knew what he wanted, what had to happen. He knew, and then he went away.

Wow, I say. Because I don’t know what else to say and I want him to keep talking.

When he went, my brother and I lost it, we were beside ourselves. But, even until that point, through all our crying and sobbing, he was serene. He’d take us in his arms, hold us, pat our backs. But then he’d look at us with this look that said, ‘I know how hard this is for you, and I sympathize, but for me, it is easy, It’s the only way.’

I don’t know how to say this, but I feel like in the past 24 hours, he’d shown more dignity and courage and fearlessness than he had his entire life. It took until the final hours of his life, but I’ve never seen such bravery. At this place in my life, I can’t even fathom a strength like that.

Wow, I whisper. And this time the wow is a reaction, not just a filling of space. ‘Wow.’ An exhale. A breath.

One of many I take and continue to take as the swamp reeds blow and my friend nods towards exhausted sleep. And the other night walkers on the street breeze by.

June 16, 2014
Without

Lake without rain
Tree without bark
Love minus pain
Light lacking spark
Me without you
You needing more
Shut without open
Windowless door






June 13, 2014
"When one is a stranger to oneself then one is estranged from others too. If one is out of touch with oneself, then one cannot touch others."

— Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift From The Sea

June 11, 2014
Start

It’s 8am
And what’s to keep me up 
or moving down
Time waves
in a drowning billow
hello, it says
goodbye
Like a pillow 
used for suffocating
or for sleep
sheep-counting
or grave-mounting
hurt helping
Death whelping
Back to bed or stay awake
feather assassination
Real deal
Stale fake

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Filed under: poetry writing 
June 9, 2014
Anne and the Fountain Pen

I’m re-reading The Diary of Anne Frank. In one entry, she describes the history and demise of her fountain pen, originally given to her at nine, when she was in bed with the flu. Now she’s 14 and it’s the pen that has been with her through the year and a half in the Annexe.

She’s sitting at the table with her dad and sister while they work on Latin. The fountain pen is also hanging out at the table. Anne’s rubbing beans, which, as she describes it, is the process of de-molding old beans. At a quarter to six, she sweeps the floor and throws the dirt and old beans into a newspaper and onto the fire.

The next morning, the pen’s clip was found among the ashes, but the gold nib was nowhere to be found.

"I have one consolation, although a slender one," she writes. "My fountain pen has been cremated, just what I want later." 

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Filed under: Anne Frank 
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