I spent so many Saturdays in my father's woodshop
that every Friday night I dream of sawdust.
One learns certain things in a woodshop
that cannot be learned anywhere else in the world.
I forget that some things are not common knowledge,
for example: Water on wood that is in the ground
means life. Water on wood that is not
will ruin everything. I know this as surely as I know
that the sun will rise on Sunday and I'll realize
(with a sadness) I don't have wood glue stuck
to my fingertips, as surely as I know I've loved
my father like trees love the sun.
I fall in love with geographical locations,
with certain songs whose harmonies stroke me,
with dishes of food and colors of sky.
I almost fell in love with a boy once.
I would have given him my love, given him
a fighting chance at staking a flag
on the left side of my chest. Seriously:
he could have been a tattoo. It was like that.
And you, dear friend, we've spent so many nights
up until four, doing nothing but laying in bed
cuddling and laughing and talking about this boy
you've loved, that boy I fucked, this girl
we hate and why and where and how many times
and the natures of our beings and what it means
to truly live. I trusted you with everything.
I thought you knew everything I knew.
But you watched over my house while I was away
and you didn't know that thing about water
and wood that is not alive, and you took
the chopsticks that the boy I almost loved
brought me from some small country in Asia
when he went there with the girl who is not me
and traveled for a month and it was the one thing,
the consolation prize I had from our almost-love
and you left them sitting in dishwater in my sink.
They are broken now. I would cry over them,
but tears, as it happens, are made of water, too.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
22/30: The man who could rewind time.
The first thing he did
was win a whole bunch of money.
They boys at the track thought he just
"had a knack," a "good picker."
He made sure to lose at the poker tables
just often enough.
The money (it was a surprise
even though he'd heard it
a million times before) did not
buy happiness. So he met a girl.
Learned her habits well enough to rewind
and win her over. Made her love him.
It was easier than picking the
trifecta, the daily double, he knew
everything about her before they'd even met
(for the eighteenth time) and they married,
raised a family, and he did it all
just exactly right. Handled every situation
perfectly (by the eighth or ninth try),
was a model father, a perfect husband and at the end
of it all, as he lay on his deathbed,
he found himself too afraid to die.
So he went back.
Became a bank robber. An astronaut.
A famous country singer. President.
Learned kung fu, calculus, French.
Read all the books he meant to,
twice.
He still wasn't happy.
He began inventing favorite ways to die.
Driving off bridges was a fun one,
rewinding just as the front of the car
kissed the water hello. He'd play with time,
see just how far he could push it - how much
carbon monoxide he could breathe and still
go back.
Eventually he started getting confused;
surely you can imagine. When you've lived
a thousand lifetimes it must be hard to tell
which one you're living now.
It wasn't until she saw the girl he'd married
in the grocery, walking alongside another man
(one who'd won her fair and square)
with the same exact two babies they'd borne
that the real, heavy-hitting questions about life
and meaning and the nature of reality wore him down.
He ran up to her, crying, but of course
she did not know him. When he demanded
that the babies were his own, she called for the police.
When he snatched at them, tried to run,
they knocked him down. The report later said
he'd reached into his pocket and they'd thought
he had a gun, so they fired and he clean
disappeared.
There was nothing else to say.
was win a whole bunch of money.
They boys at the track thought he just
"had a knack," a "good picker."
He made sure to lose at the poker tables
just often enough.
The money (it was a surprise
even though he'd heard it
a million times before) did not
buy happiness. So he met a girl.
Learned her habits well enough to rewind
and win her over. Made her love him.
It was easier than picking the
trifecta, the daily double, he knew
everything about her before they'd even met
(for the eighteenth time) and they married,
raised a family, and he did it all
just exactly right. Handled every situation
perfectly (by the eighth or ninth try),
was a model father, a perfect husband and at the end
of it all, as he lay on his deathbed,
he found himself too afraid to die.
So he went back.
Became a bank robber. An astronaut.
A famous country singer. President.
Learned kung fu, calculus, French.
Read all the books he meant to,
twice.
He still wasn't happy.
He began inventing favorite ways to die.
Driving off bridges was a fun one,
rewinding just as the front of the car
kissed the water hello. He'd play with time,
see just how far he could push it - how much
carbon monoxide he could breathe and still
go back.
Eventually he started getting confused;
surely you can imagine. When you've lived
a thousand lifetimes it must be hard to tell
which one you're living now.
It wasn't until she saw the girl he'd married
in the grocery, walking alongside another man
(one who'd won her fair and square)
with the same exact two babies they'd borne
that the real, heavy-hitting questions about life
and meaning and the nature of reality wore him down.
He ran up to her, crying, but of course
she did not know him. When he demanded
that the babies were his own, she called for the police.
When he snatched at them, tried to run,
they knocked him down. The report later said
he'd reached into his pocket and they'd thought
he had a gun, so they fired and he clean
disappeared.
There was nothing else to say.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
21/30: TAL#175
Her strictly Catholic mother called her a whore
before she even knew what it meant,
how to spell it even, her mother's eyes
stabbing judgments into her back, so she did
what any kid who wants to survive a parent must do:
she lied.
Their name (she said) was McCreary, a lovely family,
the son six, the daughter five, the wife
just lovely, charming, kind and the husband
busy and important: a secret government agent,
so she couldn't give her mother the phone number,
or the address to the house where she babysat;
it was a matter of government security, of course.
They had a summer home, too, near the lake,
and she had to go with them, and her brother
went too, a good role model for the son, they said.
They spent every weekend out there, all summer long
and her mother was so pleased, her eyes now
clear, now proud, asking the most important question:
"And what do they think of me?"
She gave the only possible reply:
"They think you're wonderful."
Years later, after the McCrearys moved away
and the girl grew up, made her own family,
a real one, she confronted her mother one day,
called her out for all her wrongs, her lies,
each nail she'd hammered in and she broke down,
cried: "I did the best I could."
It was the first truth the girl could remember
being spoken between them.
before she even knew what it meant,
how to spell it even, her mother's eyes
stabbing judgments into her back, so she did
what any kid who wants to survive a parent must do:
she lied.
Their name (she said) was McCreary, a lovely family,
the son six, the daughter five, the wife
just lovely, charming, kind and the husband
busy and important: a secret government agent,
so she couldn't give her mother the phone number,
or the address to the house where she babysat;
it was a matter of government security, of course.
They had a summer home, too, near the lake,
and she had to go with them, and her brother
went too, a good role model for the son, they said.
They spent every weekend out there, all summer long
and her mother was so pleased, her eyes now
clear, now proud, asking the most important question:
"And what do they think of me?"
She gave the only possible reply:
"They think you're wonderful."
Years later, after the McCrearys moved away
and the girl grew up, made her own family,
a real one, she confronted her mother one day,
called her out for all her wrongs, her lies,
each nail she'd hammered in and she broke down,
cried: "I did the best I could."
It was the first truth the girl could remember
being spoken between them.
Monday, April 20, 2009
19&20/30
18 is still under construction. It's proving more difficult than I thought.
--------------------------
19/30:
The flight was overbooked, so everyone watched,
wondering who would get on, who would get
a hotel room, a later flight, discount vouchers,
hollow apologies. Even after they made it on
one couple was pulled back off to make room for
another two, no explanations given to the rest of them.
They watched as one young man, tall, white, and
handsome, stood waiting with the flight attendants,
effortlessly flirting, natural as a mother tongue.
They watched as the captain (herself a woman,
still, even at 60) was charmed, pulled out
an extra seat in the cockpit, settled him in,
closed that resolute door. Takeoff was messy,
rain pelting the airplane, sounding like marbles
dropped from a great height, Velcro strips pulled painfully
slowly apart. The flight was turbulent and the landing
nerve-wracking and all anyone could think of was
that lucky young man in the cockpit, privy to the magic,
the view of the broad windshield, the technical jargon
on the radio. When it was all over, one hour and
thirty-eight minutes later, they all watched him exit,
slip off first; one woman approached him at the gate,
now silent, asked him, "What did you see up there?" His
unblinking reply fell on all their ears: "Everything."
-------------------------------------------------------
20/30: "No offense to anybody out there, but that's how I was raised and that's how I think that it should be."
Gay America, Miss California thinks your lifestyle is a choice.
"Well I think it's great that Americans are able to choose..."
Perez Hilton, sharpen your nails and scratch out her voice.
Can't you see her, growing up, learning waves, smiles and poise?
Her parents changing channels any time she saw the news.
Bi America, Miss California thinks your struggles are your choice.
Fancy dresses, plastic tiaras, and contempt: her childhood toys,
living in a house that hated niggers, spics, and jews.
Dave Sedaris, sharpen your pencil and write out her voice.
An ignorant judgmental attitude is one that only destroys.
Backward teachings and religion are never an excuse.
Trans America, Miss California thinks your suffering's your choice.
Same sex marriage or "opposite marriage?" Her answer just annoys.
"...one or the other. Um, we live in a land that you can choose."
Elton John, clear your throat and sing out over her voice.
No crown for Carrie Prejean, no trophies or cause to rejoice.
Feel, along with those you've slandered, what it means to lose.
Queer America, Miss California thinks inequality is your choice.
Matthew Shepard, live again and speak some truth over her voice.
--------------------------
19/30:
The flight was overbooked, so everyone watched,
wondering who would get on, who would get
a hotel room, a later flight, discount vouchers,
hollow apologies. Even after they made it on
one couple was pulled back off to make room for
another two, no explanations given to the rest of them.
They watched as one young man, tall, white, and
handsome, stood waiting with the flight attendants,
effortlessly flirting, natural as a mother tongue.
They watched as the captain (herself a woman,
still, even at 60) was charmed, pulled out
an extra seat in the cockpit, settled him in,
closed that resolute door. Takeoff was messy,
rain pelting the airplane, sounding like marbles
dropped from a great height, Velcro strips pulled painfully
slowly apart. The flight was turbulent and the landing
nerve-wracking and all anyone could think of was
that lucky young man in the cockpit, privy to the magic,
the view of the broad windshield, the technical jargon
on the radio. When it was all over, one hour and
thirty-eight minutes later, they all watched him exit,
slip off first; one woman approached him at the gate,
now silent, asked him, "What did you see up there?" His
unblinking reply fell on all their ears: "Everything."
-------------------------------------------------------
20/30: "No offense to anybody out there, but that's how I was raised and that's how I think that it should be."
Gay America, Miss California thinks your lifestyle is a choice.
"Well I think it's great that Americans are able to choose..."
Perez Hilton, sharpen your nails and scratch out her voice.
Can't you see her, growing up, learning waves, smiles and poise?
Her parents changing channels any time she saw the news.
Bi America, Miss California thinks your struggles are your choice.
Fancy dresses, plastic tiaras, and contempt: her childhood toys,
living in a house that hated niggers, spics, and jews.
Dave Sedaris, sharpen your pencil and write out her voice.
An ignorant judgmental attitude is one that only destroys.
Backward teachings and religion are never an excuse.
Trans America, Miss California thinks your suffering's your choice.
Same sex marriage or "opposite marriage?" Her answer just annoys.
"...one or the other. Um, we live in a land that you can choose."
Elton John, clear your throat and sing out over her voice.
No crown for Carrie Prejean, no trophies or cause to rejoice.
Feel, along with those you've slandered, what it means to lose.
Queer America, Miss California thinks inequality is your choice.
Matthew Shepard, live again and speak some truth over her voice.
Catching up: 16&17/30
16/30: Chocolate Bunnies
------------------------
Georgia eats the face first.
Out of spite, just to be mean, because she can,
she says, sometimes she jokes: so they won't
be able to scream.
Caroline eats the tail.
Because no one else does, says she likes to be
different, jokes that because this way, they cannot
see her coming, says anyway, who doesn't like
a little tail?
Sheri goes for the ears every time.
Says it's the easiest, the most logical, says it's how
everyone else does it; it's mostly because she remembers
being a child, hidden under sheets, pretending she could
not hear her father and mother, wishing she did not have
ears.
Maria eats the feet first.
Says it reminds her of the words her mother so often
repeated, encouraging her to "jump in, baby girl,
feet first." It's really because that way they cannot
run off.
----------------------------------------
17/30:
There are flatlands in eastern North Carolina,
low and wet, reed-ridden marshes, split by deep creeks,
occasional peaks of land just dry enough to stand on,
mounded up as if by some childlike god.
Just on the edge of one of those mounds stood
a young couple, new-married, the young man
looking out, eyes bright hope beams, said:
"Here it will all be, love, a house on stilts,
a small fishing boat, a life just there, see, with
two healthy sons and a new baby girl, a wraparound
porch, and you can quilt and can, close your eyes."
and all she could see was the water,
rising, devouring the coastline in a
careless yawn, the waves lapping
at her feet, climbing up her sides,
a bridal veil of seaweed,
children born with fins.
-------------------------------
------------------------
Georgia eats the face first.
Out of spite, just to be mean, because she can,
she says, sometimes she jokes: so they won't
be able to scream.
Caroline eats the tail.
Because no one else does, says she likes to be
different, jokes that because this way, they cannot
see her coming, says anyway, who doesn't like
a little tail?
Sheri goes for the ears every time.
Says it's the easiest, the most logical, says it's how
everyone else does it; it's mostly because she remembers
being a child, hidden under sheets, pretending she could
not hear her father and mother, wishing she did not have
ears.
Maria eats the feet first.
Says it reminds her of the words her mother so often
repeated, encouraging her to "jump in, baby girl,
feet first." It's really because that way they cannot
run off.
----------------------------------------
17/30:
There are flatlands in eastern North Carolina,
low and wet, reed-ridden marshes, split by deep creeks,
occasional peaks of land just dry enough to stand on,
mounded up as if by some childlike god.
Just on the edge of one of those mounds stood
a young couple, new-married, the young man
looking out, eyes bright hope beams, said:
"Here it will all be, love, a house on stilts,
a small fishing boat, a life just there, see, with
two healthy sons and a new baby girl, a wraparound
porch, and you can quilt and can, close your eyes."
and all she could see was the water,
rising, devouring the coastline in a
careless yawn, the waves lapping
at her feet, climbing up her sides,
a bridal veil of seaweed,
children born with fins.
-------------------------------
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Here I go again...
Back onto another plane, only this time just to North Carolina. I am going camping in the woods, so I will definitely not have access to a computer. I will get back LATE Sunday night and will hopefully have some catchup poems for you Monday. Please don't hate me. If I get any ideas tomorrow morning, I'll try and post one up quick before the plane leaves.
15/30: the collection
See him there, bent low over the glass-top case on the small
wooden desk, lamp-lit with a golden glow as he takes another pin
and, with a surgeon or a sculptor's care, gently presses it through
another specimen, the third in his collection of past loves.
See them there against the cork-board, like so many beetles
or butterflies. See one tear loose, the biggest one, the first;
see it follow him around in his day-to-days, see him feed it,
voluntarily at first, thoughts in the mornings and dreams
in the night. Watch it begin to grow, at first perched
upon his shoulder, watch it grow fat, so fat it's almost
formless, its mouth always open, doing impressions of baby birds,
goldfish out of water. Look now as he is forced to carry her
around on his back, can't bring himself to quit feeding her,
she eats the other past loves and begins to eye the sketches
of the future ones, too. Look - he comes home one day to find her
half the size of the room, his journal open, tearing page
after page, stuffing them into her hungry mouth.
See him take her hand and, crying, lead her out of the house,
outside the city limits, into the forest and the river by the place
where they first made love. Watch him kiss her on her finally
closed mouth, hold her beneath the water until the bubbles stop.
Look as he searches until he finds the biggest, heaviest rock,
places it upon her chest, squeezing out a last bubble that comes up,
pops, and emits one final syllable:
"Mine."
wooden desk, lamp-lit with a golden glow as he takes another pin
and, with a surgeon or a sculptor's care, gently presses it through
another specimen, the third in his collection of past loves.
See them there against the cork-board, like so many beetles
or butterflies. See one tear loose, the biggest one, the first;
see it follow him around in his day-to-days, see him feed it,
voluntarily at first, thoughts in the mornings and dreams
in the night. Watch it begin to grow, at first perched
upon his shoulder, watch it grow fat, so fat it's almost
formless, its mouth always open, doing impressions of baby birds,
goldfish out of water. Look now as he is forced to carry her
around on his back, can't bring himself to quit feeding her,
she eats the other past loves and begins to eye the sketches
of the future ones, too. Look - he comes home one day to find her
half the size of the room, his journal open, tearing page
after page, stuffing them into her hungry mouth.
See him take her hand and, crying, lead her out of the house,
outside the city limits, into the forest and the river by the place
where they first made love. Watch him kiss her on her finally
closed mouth, hold her beneath the water until the bubbles stop.
Look as he searches until he finds the biggest, heaviest rock,
places it upon her chest, squeezing out a last bubble that comes up,
pops, and emits one final syllable:
"Mine."
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Rory Names the Spanish Colors.
Oh, I know this one. Rogue? Rouge. No, Ro--
ro. Rogo. Rojo. I know that one. Gr...
No, bear. Day. Verde. Oh, me! Don't
tell me. That one's azul. Negro. Blanco. A--
Ahm. Am-ee-yo. Ah-ree-yo. Ama. Amarillo.
Can I have the candy now? I can count to ten next.
Oh, that's the hard one. That's. Ah. Ahna.
Ah-rah-do. DON'T TELL ME. I can do it.
Ahna-rah-do. Anaranjado.
And with that, she climbed into my lap
for a hug.
ro. Rogo. Rojo. I know that one. Gr...
No, bear. Day. Verde. Oh, me! Don't
tell me. That one's azul. Negro. Blanco. A--
Ahm. Am-ee-yo. Ah-ree-yo. Ama. Amarillo.
Can I have the candy now? I can count to ten next.
Oh, that's the hard one. That's. Ah. Ahna.
Ah-rah-do. DON'T TELL ME. I can do it.
Ahna-rah-do. Anaranjado.
And with that, she climbed into my lap
for a hug.
Catching up: Poems 11-13/30
11/30 (GMB Series #2)
She asked "What are you thinking?"
You don't notice, I said, the things that you don't notice
when you're driving until you're not driving. For example.
When I am the passenger I look at each house
for as long as I can before my eyes start to burn
from the straining. I stare into their windows, and if someone
happens to be out in the yard, so much the better. I imagine
their lives, give them names, decide whether or not
they like sauce on their meat, how they like their eggs,
their potatoes, their kisses. Pick out favorite colors,
bands, memories, places they've visited, people they've known
that have died. I watch as they water their lawns,
fold their clothes, hug hello or goodbye or straighten their houses
and lives. So when you're worried, I said, about me not dancing
here at the disco, don't be. I'm noticing the things
I don't notice when I'm partying with my friends. Because
we may be partying, but I'll never count you my friend.
-------------------------------------------------
12/30 (GMB series #3)
She asked: "Do you like to trade?"
Well it worked out just fine for Robert Johnson, didn't it?
(Who was he?) He sat down at the crossroads one night until
old Satan himself came strolling by, traded his immortal soul
for some mean guitar skills. And boy could he play.
I'll make you a CD. (So, you do like to trade?) Well look
at dear Martin. He traded his life so his brothers could be
called men, don't you think that was noble? Don't you think
in the end that he made a fair trade? Everyone's got to die
sometime. Might as well make it worthwhile. (Why all these
stories about dying?) Because I can't bring myself to trade
any more of my sanity for your momentary pleasure. I would
rather not take another breath than take another word from you.
-------------------------------
13/30 (GMB series #4)
DO NOT DISTURB:
I am sleeping. / I am reading. / I am watching
television. / I am pacing. / I am inventing. / I
am excercising. / I am making love. / I am bathing.
/ I am crying. / I am focusing very determinedly on
what it means to be human. / I am hoping. / I am
dreaming. / I am creating my own future, one idea
at a time. / I am wishing. / I am pretending. /
I am imagining. / I am reflecting, recounting,
remembering. / I am flying. / I am writing. / I am
in child's pose, breathing with the universe. / I
am avoiding thoughts of you. / I am avoiding you.
/ I am repressing. / I am forgetting. / I am some
where else, someone else. / I am unknowing you
and everything about you. / I am healing. / I am
rewriting. / I am trying to name every one
of the stars.
She asked "What are you thinking?"
You don't notice, I said, the things that you don't notice
when you're driving until you're not driving. For example.
When I am the passenger I look at each house
for as long as I can before my eyes start to burn
from the straining. I stare into their windows, and if someone
happens to be out in the yard, so much the better. I imagine
their lives, give them names, decide whether or not
they like sauce on their meat, how they like their eggs,
their potatoes, their kisses. Pick out favorite colors,
bands, memories, places they've visited, people they've known
that have died. I watch as they water their lawns,
fold their clothes, hug hello or goodbye or straighten their houses
and lives. So when you're worried, I said, about me not dancing
here at the disco, don't be. I'm noticing the things
I don't notice when I'm partying with my friends. Because
we may be partying, but I'll never count you my friend.
-------------------------------------------------
12/30 (GMB series #3)
She asked: "Do you like to trade?"
Well it worked out just fine for Robert Johnson, didn't it?
(Who was he?) He sat down at the crossroads one night until
old Satan himself came strolling by, traded his immortal soul
for some mean guitar skills. And boy could he play.
I'll make you a CD. (So, you do like to trade?) Well look
at dear Martin. He traded his life so his brothers could be
called men, don't you think that was noble? Don't you think
in the end that he made a fair trade? Everyone's got to die
sometime. Might as well make it worthwhile. (Why all these
stories about dying?) Because I can't bring myself to trade
any more of my sanity for your momentary pleasure. I would
rather not take another breath than take another word from you.
-------------------------------
13/30 (GMB series #4)
DO NOT DISTURB:
I am sleeping. / I am reading. / I am watching
television. / I am pacing. / I am inventing. / I
am excercising. / I am making love. / I am bathing.
/ I am crying. / I am focusing very determinedly on
what it means to be human. / I am hoping. / I am
dreaming. / I am creating my own future, one idea
at a time. / I am wishing. / I am pretending. /
I am imagining. / I am reflecting, recounting,
remembering. / I am flying. / I am writing. / I am
in child's pose, breathing with the universe. / I
am avoiding thoughts of you. / I am avoiding you.
/ I am repressing. / I am forgetting. / I am some
where else, someone else. / I am unknowing you
and everything about you. / I am healing. / I am
rewriting. / I am trying to name every one
of the stars.
Catching up: Poems 8-10/30
These are all so rough... they're the interpretations of sketches of ideas I jotted down in my tiny notebook while wandering the streets of Barcelona. Maybe at the end of the month they'll tighten up, maybe before then, maybe much later. In the meantime, here they are as they are now.
8/30:
I didn't think anything when the books began shifting.
Hardly blinked when the shelves
started to sag. When I felt eyes burning
into my back I started to wonder.
When I heard her cough I knew.
The bookshelves that had stood, stoic,
so long in the back room without saying a word
began to follow me around the house.
"Pick that up," scolded the mass in a voice
I couldn't place at first. "Your house is a mess."
My life is a mess, I thought, as she stalked me,
like some memory's shadow, breathing
down the back of my neck. Her steps
at first were sluggish but before long
she walked with determination, as if she owned
the rooms, the house, my life, myself.
The more she reminded me of my mother, the more
I wanted her to leave. I never asked
if it was really her. I didn't want to hear
how she'd answer.
I couldn't sleep. She'd rattle off lists
of things I hadn't done, things I'd done wrong,
things I lacked. When I found myself
doubting myself I got out the matches. Lit the house
on fire, locked the doors, walked away
sobbing in tune with the sirens.
------------------------------------
9/30 (GMB series #1)
We walked into the wine shop and asked, off-hand:
"Is there anything in these casks?"
I'm just saying there are some things you don't know
unless you ask.
Yes, she said, local wine, what the locals drink
for dinner every night, on the way home they stop in.
She fills a 1.5 liter second-hand water bottle
with their flavor of choice. We asked her to pick one.
She charged two sixty-five. I'm just saying
some of the best things in life are cheap as hell.
-----------------------------------
10/30
The tremors started in the morning
as I was brushing my teeth watching
my reflection in the mirror trying
to convince me I was dancing.
I didn't believe it. Set down the brush
and walked outside to watch
the town's undoing. Cracks in the streets
became crevices, caverns, doorways crumbled,
windows opened, then frowned. Flames licked
up the sides of buildings while mothers,
crying, leaned out of gaps in the walls,
looking for someone to catch their babies.
I kept walking. Walked right into the heart
of the city, right up to the steps
of the cathedral where you and I never kissed,
never traded empty vows, never ran through
those arches while people threw rice,
birdseed, or glitter. I sat on the steps,
just as calm as you please, knowing
I wouldn't be touched.
8/30:
I didn't think anything when the books began shifting.
Hardly blinked when the shelves
started to sag. When I felt eyes burning
into my back I started to wonder.
When I heard her cough I knew.
The bookshelves that had stood, stoic,
so long in the back room without saying a word
began to follow me around the house.
"Pick that up," scolded the mass in a voice
I couldn't place at first. "Your house is a mess."
My life is a mess, I thought, as she stalked me,
like some memory's shadow, breathing
down the back of my neck. Her steps
at first were sluggish but before long
she walked with determination, as if she owned
the rooms, the house, my life, myself.
The more she reminded me of my mother, the more
I wanted her to leave. I never asked
if it was really her. I didn't want to hear
how she'd answer.
I couldn't sleep. She'd rattle off lists
of things I hadn't done, things I'd done wrong,
things I lacked. When I found myself
doubting myself I got out the matches. Lit the house
on fire, locked the doors, walked away
sobbing in tune with the sirens.
------------------------------------
9/30 (GMB series #1)
We walked into the wine shop and asked, off-hand:
"Is there anything in these casks?"
I'm just saying there are some things you don't know
unless you ask.
Yes, she said, local wine, what the locals drink
for dinner every night, on the way home they stop in.
She fills a 1.5 liter second-hand water bottle
with their flavor of choice. We asked her to pick one.
She charged two sixty-five. I'm just saying
some of the best things in life are cheap as hell.
-----------------------------------
10/30
The tremors started in the morning
as I was brushing my teeth watching
my reflection in the mirror trying
to convince me I was dancing.
I didn't believe it. Set down the brush
and walked outside to watch
the town's undoing. Cracks in the streets
became crevices, caverns, doorways crumbled,
windows opened, then frowned. Flames licked
up the sides of buildings while mothers,
crying, leaned out of gaps in the walls,
looking for someone to catch their babies.
I kept walking. Walked right into the heart
of the city, right up to the steps
of the cathedral where you and I never kissed,
never traded empty vows, never ran through
those arches while people threw rice,
birdseed, or glitter. I sat on the steps,
just as calm as you please, knowing
I wouldn't be touched.
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