Wednesday, November 28, 2012


once in a while the quiet comes in like a grandmother. soft and wise. what is that feeling of solitude? exactly? nearly a happiness. something more profound. something reminiscent of a steepled country church. where silence meets something like a prayer, but it's the smell of the wooden floors and the musty bible pages that evoke those tears not the stories inside. remember though, it's just like that dusty church. but where that quiet nestles in is somewhere else. across different days, during the same times of the seasons. tucked into a cup of coffee or inside an undulating candle flame. above the twinkling skyline. riding salty waves somewhere i've never been. but i know it. and just in that last breath, the quiet slips away again. hunched and fragile and tired. what's left? nearly a loneliness. someplace i vowed i'd never be found. and the things that race inside that space where that quiet was so briefly tucked away; they are deafening. but in that expanse of noise is hint of what who i knew i was and who i might become. and it could only be heard in comparison to that elderly quietness. in that gap i can hear everything and nothing together, and i believe in it. and i believe that i can exist in that harmony of noise and calm. and maybe i won't be there alone. call it naivety. i call it beauty. what is faith?

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

home. work.

the hissing and spitting radiators remind me that i won't be sleeping much tonight. the sounds of unsettling heat are just that and there's just a little snow left on the sidewalks outside. tonight some are not hissing and spitting. the cats, anyway. they are curled up inside their own rattling radiators because they are settled. they aren't settling. just settled. and i'm breathing out of my mouth to try to do the same sort of settling. i've put my books down for a while. i've been in them so much i feel like i must smell like a library by now. but they are such good company that i hesitate setting them aside before i take a hot and spitting shower. in the shower i wonder if i could ever really be loved. i decide that maybe if i could breathe more easily i could be. i don't want to eat dinner because i feel fat after seeing myself in the shower and i'm still not sure if i'm lovable. some could. the cats, anyway. they remind me by playing with the curls in my hair. cozying up to me to get their dinner, assuredly. i feel alright about it though because it's not that i mind being manipulated in return for some affection. which i need more than dinner at any given time. don't worry- i'm not starving. just hungry. so i put the huge stack of books into my small lap and swim back into the pages of ancient wisdom hoping for that kind of simplicity. the kind of simplicity that hugs you before you fall asleep and whispers secrets into your ear that mean more than love, commitment, sex, or freedom. Secrets of decocting teas and breathing. that's all i have to do. it's time for bed and the radiators are finally quiet.

Monday, November 19, 2012

post heaven

this is not the afterlife.
but we could have been anything
before now.
one of these days, though
we'll push through to another
another next time
after heaven settles in
into our skin
and we'll sink into another
second skin
for living and dying
for nourishing what we have
exhaling what we can't use.
forming new lives
in our bones and blood-
breaking and swimming

we could become anything
when a day isn't a day,
only breaths in a timeless sea
another eternity.
after we create something new
another life
to give everything and nothing
nourishing only how we can
screaming and breathing
holding on forever
fingers and toes.
we can conceive of anything
before heaven.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

where are you?

once i had a dream about you.
(a hundred times, actually).
dishonesty is a bad way to start
(i suppose).
but it's landed
you there
me here
and now it's all in between
dreams and white lies
sleep and omission
(a hundred miles apart, actually).
i'm thinking about the ocean
the cliffs and the birds
but only in the wake of my tears
(i suppose).
the perfect place to set up
for heartbreak
(just one of a hundred, actually).
in the sound of wave breaks
where was i?
i'm here now
(i suppose).
and where are you?
maybe you dreamed about me once.

Thursday, November 15, 2012


into the earth. deep.
through soil and moss and roots
where warmth is relative
so if i don't move
one inch
the heat will stay
inside my fur
a while
the blizzard passes
and the wind is calm
and my own tail
is all i need to sleep
soundly enough
but winter edges. closer.
and spring is just a dream
for now
while i am tucked away
under the hill
under the cobalt sky
beside myself

Friday, November 9, 2012

riding on a train

thudding and pumping and screaming and smoking
under my feet rumbling,
i could hear it coming.
a speeding wreck,
somehow right on track
to my doorstep.
a few sparks and then
boarding time.
had i waited all those years?

i'm a passenger, i'm asleep
it's thudding along,
it's time to eat
and i just have tea
because the seat beside me is empty.
the beat of steel on steel tracks
will be my company
for another year
but when the phone rings
it's a stranger from the coast
and we don't speak.

tunnels gape open into mountains,
and eat us up
because you're here now
your face aglow in the machines
your shoes untied and hurried.
we slumber in sleep cars
sometimes together,
when you're not counting
the passing lampposts
when your mind quieter than the night.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

remember love letters? talking to the curtain.

i've never gone to confession.
but, we could talk just as openly
about what i have done, or thought
or didn't do.
the water is hot and you're hanging there
and even though i'm naked
and vulnerable you're not looking.
you don't have eyes,
just rings and plastic and that's best.

tonight is about blankets,
the pile of them beside me.
as warm as they seem
somehow my toes are still cold
and rolling around in my own clothes doesn't even help
this time of year.
i know you're not listening.
if i wanted to feel heard
i'd go to the mirror
she's wide-eyed and sympathetic
and knows that i'm a serial sobber
and cries with me
even when i'm at my ugliest.

so i could stare blankly into the dark
or i could stare at the blankets
or keep talking to you.
so what?
lately i'm writing out checks
instead of love letters.
i can write checks instead of poetry-
for a while.
and try to not check out
i'll try to write prose instead.
like i used to.
i think there are some love letters
tucked into the back pages of a novel.
we'll dig them out once the smoke clears.

thank you for the talk.
sorry to leave you hanging.