May 30.1
I’ve just realized — it’s the sound you hear when placing a shell to your ear. Or any similar object, really the rushing tides of blood inside us. There’s the draw;we’re mostly water and it goes where it will.
Author: C
May 30
Some mornings exist in a void, so clear and calm I can hear the morning traffic rushing over the bridge, something like fast water or a sea breeze. What I would not give to see the ocean today. We all have our tides and mine has gone out for far too long. Even the smell of salt would act as balm for this gutting spring tide; uncovering the most confidential of tide pools, the most […]
May 29.2
Lamb, who made you? Heartlessness begets heartlessness– I’m sorry for sticking you with the bill. Even tygers have a conscience,usually pickled in beer, and egged on by the knowing smirks of waiters.
May 29.1
I guess that’s why they call it the blues, piped into the grocery store, a slow-up at the checkstand, I’ll miss my bus for sure. Oh Elton, I don’t really care, wandering the aisles and looking at cereal. The passage of people makes a place feel lonely, grocery stores and airports, especially at odd hours. The linoleum seems sad. I wish it didn’t — but it’s things like this that write the songs, not just […]
May 29
The 3 AM bird may not be real; I usually hear it after starting from a dream, this time lightning and thunder, but the brightest I could imagine, the most ear-cracking. I had to get up and walk around the darkened house, half-sure someone had tried to break in. Nothing. I had smelled smoke, saw sparks cascading from the roof before I woke. The 3 AM bird called again, what could it be saying at such […]
May 28.3
And as the sun set, rain from a clear-ish sky, everything softening, on the lake a convoy of geese, lines of goslings; we sat under umbrellas meant for the sun, waited for the rain to ebb; construction workers with headlamps on steered an aluminum boat through the skeleton of pylons; the new bridge half done; I’ll move long before it’s finished. I know nothing is forever. Nothing is forever. Nothing is forever, but sometimes I wish it was.
May 28.2
Don’t comfort me with apples, comfort me with plums; a little softer, a little more bitter this early in the season, a little more easily bruised by careless thumbs.
May 28.1
Way to get back on the horse, she said. With real horses I’ve only been thrown once, then learned how to sit the spooks, stutter -steps and caprices of half-ton beasts. To be fair, I would not canter with a blind spot under my nose, would not risk my delicate bones to rise over a faux brick wall. The worst was Louie, an off-the-track thoroughbred, still youngish, responding to any threat or stress by taking off […]
May 28
The morning off, should walkto the market and buy plums for a tart. But it’s startedto drizzle, and are they even in season? This place isnothing compared to where I’ve just been; I’m in no moodto tease out the beauty of this pink rhododendron.It’s gaudy, domesticated, and the roses have blight.This morning has no draw, feeling uneasy as breakfastafter harsh words were spoken. Even the sun is a little off —sickly, wan– unsure if it will clear up or […]
May 27.1
Today I’ve heard Led Zeppelin on the radio, incessantly, including D’ya Mak’er twice.What does it mean? And today in the garden, a random Russian woman told me, there’s no suchthing as perfect in this life, joining a long series of Russian female archetypes that arc through my life story and give unsolicited advice. Maybe the pointpatiently waiting for a sign is that after a while onegets bored and elects to just act. It’s not likelove is a finite quantity; where’s the […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 