Tuesday, January 29, 2013

in the morning

He resigned with a puff from a wet nose. Out of the room, door shut (gently) behind him. He slinked to the soft part of the couch and rested his snout tight between his little feet. Another body would lay flush with her tonight, sleep to the mild breath and the kicks and the flips. In the morning they came out and made smells and heat and calm shuffles back and forth. They fed him rips of bread and salty meat. He waited for it (patiently), his heart a little faster at the sight of flat plates piled with redolence. Then the other body went out and shut the door behind him, and she sat down with a cup of steaming something until it was not steaming anymore. When he knew the rips were gone he rested his snout on her little feet. She sighed and made a string of whimpers and plosives. Like she did. Most he didn’t recognize. He turned his ears toward the sounds but found no instructions. So he went to sleep and the words she spoke out loud—was he sent to me as a gift? Or a punishment?—dissipated into the afternoon, without meaning, and he dreamed of cantering legs and her calling to him from far away.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

One who is now gone.

A freeze came in the summer this year. Killed my beets and browned the ground. And who (me) wears boots in the summer? Those unlike me, not only in spongy and dangling flesh, but in prickley mind, flocked to the south where it is colder. And now in the winter that changes our clothes and our bed times, I left my boots aligned with the square design of a rug in a room to the left of the fireplace. A boot worn but not weary. Just a boot afterall. Quiet as you. Patient as you and your silver hairs waiting for the rest to arrive. And while I opened my palm against the tongue like skin of your solid side, makes the sound of a brush. Gesso on canvas. Fear came in the same door I did. And sniffed at my boots and knew I had been walking in hope. and went out stalking at the fence to see where I had gone. A hunting ground not yet discovered.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

HeHaw

An Agnostic girl has a faith crisis, and the universe laughs... well... she thinks.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Anti-poetry

There was nothing too unexpected. It is the middle of January, after all. The wind made me miss the sky, and I realized I should have thought the knit sweater through. That is to say I should not have worn a knit sweater. I meant to appreciate the quiet and the desert grass, the earth bulging in sediment peaks and solitude. I mean to feel right. That is to say: not so fucking wrong. And it was lovely, and it was cold. And my failures wouldn't be left at home. I've been trying to figure them out, of course. Do the math, since logic doesn't seem to apply. Please select from the following options: A) You've made mistakes, many of them, imperceptible to yourself, but disastrous in effect B) Accidents, many of them, seemingly a pattern, but not. Just accidents. C) Something the likes of a curse, but not exactly. A design. Whether it was earned, who's to say?
I've been thinking C.  Maybe it's a generous act, sparing myself blame. I'm not responsible for the thoughts, feelings, and actions of other people. Men, I mean. I'm talking about men. But a celestial victim? That's what I am? Each question leads to another, no answer fits. Anyway, the point is, I've been trying to work it out. Then I found myself thinking of nothing but the cold. I walked down the path, following my dog. And what other conclusion could I come to but: What's the use? All that pushing and trying justified as courage and openess.  Look at these pages! Filled with vain effort. Abandon all hope, it's for the better.
 And then there was a jacket. Laying on the ground. And it fit. I'm not quick to say that the universe provides what you need. In fact I reject it. The universe? Benevolent or indifferent? Concious? I just don't know. Besides, too many questions. I'm not apt, obviously, at solving these kind of problems. Faith is slippery in me. I'll just accept it as a reminder that it's winter. The walk home was warmer. I came home and burned my strategy book.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

I'm back for now


Dear Diary, it wasn’t until the day I died until I realized I had it all wrong. As a child when I fell out of a tree, I swore God pushed me out. And little oranges he ripped out of my hands, every time time. Or big. It didn’t matter. After only a few bites  the sugar and the radiant damp heat of it, hims. Hes.  Subject and Object both at the same time. I was a mere article.  So many first bites of hims. Lost hes.  And so I was stingy, in under this absurd celestial punishment.  When I loved someone I tumbled them in my mind until they were shiny. Until they were dust. Every other year I would try to predict my future, and then the next I would try to change my luck. Again and again. I’m dead, I said. And now, when my mind has lost its devices of thumping me, I see what an accident it all was.