Wednesday, November 24, 2010

November 24, 2010

i'm just saying it out loud.. i want a pack of goddamn Marlboro reds
it would be so nice to stand outside and suck the cold air into my lungs through a tube of tobacco
sharp, self-punishing
utterly diverting from the weighted ennui of these past few days

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Into the void.

I've been running with my dog.
past sad apartments next to a mcdonalds
a cricket on the dry ground
past a black woman in a sundress, my eyes trailing for another look at her shoulders
through the smell of grass still scarred from the passing summer
through memories of a thousand septembers
cassie stops to take a dump right next to a building and I don't have a bag so we just run away.
up the rusted steps
through the narrow, caged pedestrian bridge
over the howling six-lane highway
we run as fast
as we fucking
can

Thursday, August 19, 2010

August 19, 2010

It's still gray, weighing gently down so only some things stand out. This morning walking the dog I saw 23 white mushrooms. Earlier while I was sitting Ambrose called out that a cardinal had landed in the bush outside the window. A white squirrel bounced across the road. I saw a stop sign and a piece of sandpaper. Everything was still quiet. With the mushrooms and the gray sky clearly the water element is strong and all green things vibrate intensely, patches of grass electric, reaching. When I came home Ambrose called out the window. His talking toy had suddenly said something new.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

August 18, 2010

Walking with the dogs I saw the burnt-out husk of a tree struck by lightning. It is gray and the branches are naked against the sky and the ivy on houses is green in relief. One day I saw a girl with a missing leg hobbling down the street in the afternoon and later a bird with a snapped wing. Once I was looking out on a valley in the Black Hills and dead trees bleached by successive suns reached out above the canopy of green bent like the arms of old men. The word darkness is relative. For some of us the site of dead and broken things stands out and their stark surety is easily the opposite of death.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Sirius afternoon.

Man it is cold.

April today alongside this sleepy lake in the middle of the city,
where today it would be cold anywhere.

But the wind is moving toward me so the wiggling oblongs of
sunlight on the fine ripples moving toward me look

like a thousand fish moving toward me. The sun and the wind
are competing for space.

And here is one of those weed-like trees whose every leaf is
designed to flutter. They're all shivering, hoping each side

can get some cold sun on it. I take off these dumb sunglasses
and everything changes so I put them on again. Because I

don't like the afternoon and that is why I am a Spring person,
a person of Spring. It also makes me repetitive.

II.

This person over here cradles her phone under her neck
leafing through papers. That one holds her dog in her lap

and makes me think of a small friend who died last week
and the woman he left behind and I wish I could go to her

and go to him and it's funny how people, well, I, hold on
to pain. How it can be so warm and exquisite. I'd rather

feel my breath catch in my throat and get shook like those
leaves I mentioned than let the suffering part of sadness

go away. Because I'm afraid it will hijack my memories.
I am afraid to say the words "good bye." As if we ever

can. Love marks you forever like a knife across the cheek.
or something. Not something. It does. It kills me and

today is a good day to die. Good bye small friend.

III.

There's that woman's dog again lifting his head up to the wind
and smiling at everybody and everybody who passes smiles

at him in the same way they would a new baby. Does the
other woman, with the phone, wish she could be with

somebody instead. I don't know. I'm going to lie back like
a dog and let the sun dig its fingers in me because there's

things that need to come out. Maybe the wriggles of light
-- jumping up now vertical and pointed to snap at the air

will snatch whatever it is away from me that made me
snap at you yesterday. Don't want to end with a metaphor

about pets but maybe it's time to risk not taking things
seriously. The little lights on the water are pretty trivial

but they are gathering around me and I will listen to them.

IV.

My kidney hurts

There are geese overhead

An airplane roars

An hour is over

Good bye.


From from in between


Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Earlier afternoon.

I'm playing hooky and nobody sees me
driving so slowly through my old neighborhood
passing two ladies with strollers
who are wincing because they just got sprayed
by a sprinkler.

Like I said somewhere else it's April
and the coy sunlight, etc.

Nobody notices me stepping out of my car,
UV protected, the world all amber,
walking to the shore of the marshy lake
and looking and looking and thinking nothing.
Just another ripple of light on the water
gently disturbed. Gently disturbed, ha.

I turn around and walk as slowly
as I possibly can,
making nothing of a sound,
grass and weeds just bending,
pretending I have nowhere to go,
making the walk to my car
not a walk to my car.

In it again, the tires passing
just as quietly as I did over the ground,
the radio and the open window
are my oldest, oldest friends,
and I don't have to tell anybody about it.

Earlier still.

Hello, I am a mysterious mist
creeping in the grass
down by the lake
in the coy sunlight of April.
Big, dumb trees twist in the air
crooked bars of shadow
pass over me.