Think of a cardinal and I think of snow the natural background for that berry of a bird on a card you gave me once that you pasted in a book so what if it was summer when we watched one one last time the leather on the chair was cracked it was auburn it was orange it was afternoon and memories are nothing more than fabrications built to furnish emptying rooms and there must […]
A river coursing in the street, the sky a strange yellow above the newly mangroved lawn, and inside it’s still a bottle of yawns; it sure gets boring inside this Ark.
First rain, then wind later, this front moves through mechanically, going through motions with little soul, the dog can’t even bring herself to bark in alarm. Instead we sleep away the dead days, and waking, are called back, the sound of a broken bough falling is pillowy, landing, it comes to rest, comes to rest.
I am starting to understand this need for jargon, how to hold on to our humanity we simplify others’ noting agonal breathing not drowning on dry land. Kindness? You could argue it either way, and what’s the point? I just noticed you can see the whole stadium from the parking lot, a clear view of green serene lanes of turf– that’ll be nice come summer.
[DNR/DNI] It rained tonight, really rained, for the first time this year– I wonder if you were still around to see it. On the floor it’s always endings or the beginning of ends and there’s two ways you can go out that door and I’d call either of them leaving.
[Honesty] We regret that nothing good can follow these two words.
Still writing December this new month left me behind, already and the night now hesitates to come and cover my confusion and twilight is the exact shade of go out and go by like everything else so fast it feels slow in that way a crash does.
A mouse in the wall. Why write at all? These are hidden sorts of noise. . And you can fill a hole but not a distance. . I’m trying not to try.
In all this fog -heightened silence ears strain for a sudden noise, the streets exaggeratedly empty, the shut up glow of houses so inaccessible, no one will ever walk these streets again, except there, under a lampost’s sharp cone, a figure, attached to a dog, or drowning in place, I’ll never know, the white night swallows it up before I reach that block, and our floating paths don’t cross again.
What you want, and what you get– During Friday’s commute the fog obscured all, no notion of a lake under the bridge just strings of brake lights and headlights connecting through the damp, the freeway blocked, and I thought of course it’s a wreck, but no, someone jumped into the stream of cars. Later I heard a guy ask for his legs back, he was leaving that day, he was ready to move on, now, […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 