It helps to have three cats
sharing a window-shaped patch
of sunlight at your feet, one curled
into a cup filled with shine
sparked from his silver fur.
Another turns her round
and tawny belly to the warmth,
rests her chin on the first cat’s foot.
Even the cat who walks by herself
slowly stretches, inching head
and torso into the light
though her tail remains in shadow.
She rests in the bosom of the mountain
Cradling spring in chlorophyll scented waters
Silver shoals of minnows effervesce in her shallows
Calling shore birds to feast
Dogwood petals float on unseen currents
Adrift in wind and water
Ghostly shades of cabin and barn
Shimmer in her depths
Drowned trees, still rooted –
Stand watchfully
We ply her waters quietly
Asking forgiveness, offering thanks
For the benevolent tolerance
From her uneasy depths
Run home to awe no matter how awful a ma she’s been. Don’t ask a musician how to get to Carnegie Hall, a lunatic how to get to an asylum, or a priest how to get laid. Call pest control on your most persistent nightmares, the ones that made you wet the bed and the one about people finding out. Hire a hitman to play on the company softball team. If you’re beside yourself, pat yourself on the back. When you feel like a wild animal, snort or kick or write poems and tack them to the door of the nearest church. If you’re alone, look for someone who needs a loan, but don’t expect or accept payback. If someone tells you to get lost, fine, but don’t let that person find you again. Break the record for the world’s largest vinyl collection and the record for the most detailed journal, and then break your own records.
Been thinking a lot on how the world might end
without me in it. Wouldn’t that be a shame?
Not that the world is better off with me around,
but that to not be present for such an event,
the event—is that not the misfortune of a lifetime?
To not stand before the sky and its waves of blue,
the forests and each song of crickets, wings,
leaves brushing veins of sunlight through trees,
a fog lifting the mountains, carrying them away
in a cloud of mystery, and the sea—
hypnotic heart, rhythm of beginnings—
washing all footprints from time…that final day,
would it not be a miracle to hold, to believe in
as one does a memory, before forever
settles in, becomes home?
Movies to watch
Spirit, stallion of the cimarron
The idea of you with Anne Hathway and
the guy from Red, white & royal blue
The post
Artist of the week
Woodkid
Quotes of the week
Part of my magic in the world is my mistakes
A diamonds gotta *shine*
I thought the sun would
come out today, but instead
it just looked like rain.
Clouds held haze against the earth
making me lethargic.
A just plain lazy day
spent loafing around the house,
ambling between tasks,
but focusing on none like a haint
tugged between worlds,
seized in the smog.
The townspeople built around the river,
They called it “the river of life”,
They drank from it,
They bathed in it,
They depended on the river,
As the years went on, it flowed,
The currents became stronger,
The river grew wider,
The town was flooding,
The children were drowning,
And as the townspeople screamed “dam the river”,
Their shouts were muddled by the rush of muddy water,
And as the river expanded into an ocean,
The town was lost underwater.
No.
No.
I know
we agreed
we would meet half-way.
This shouldn’t be so difficult.
But again you’ve chosen to take the high ground over
the mutual love we declared.
A hierarchy
instead of
just Us.
Damn
you.
(after the undated and untitled photograph of a woman looking up in a stairwell, by Francesco Verolino)
Sometimes I’m surprised how hurt I still am, so
outsized—even to me.
Reprieve becomes the burst of a blueberry between.
—the sadness is in my chest again &
all it takes is the song in my head remixed on the
neighbor’s radio
\\ across the street \\ the garden of my lungs
becomes overgrown with grief,
swollen. Tight & tall.
Maybe this will resurrect the self: I study a mourning dove
in her porch corner roost,
blue-lidded & trusting.
My sadness has started to feel
like a separate person. I startle
at the thought, now we’re two yellow finches
tangled briefly in bachelor’s buttons.
Somehow, we both still know to say yes,
unlaced & loudly.
