post#6

Today I decided that if no one is going to read this "blog," the least I can do is share pseudo-personal musings in the form of short posts. For example, today Jack got a name tag. If you want to call me and don't have my phone number, all you have to do is kidnap my dog and take down the number from his tag. Easy breezy. Not only that, but yesterday he got his final puppy shots. All that's left to do is take away his last connection to wild dog life: we're gonna make it so he never makes puppies. :). And that is all...

sdsu

i guess i'm back in the application cycle. The gauntlet has been dropped... or taken up, whichever.

some more poems

An Apocalyptic Memorandum

focus on the little things. remember

the important thing about trees: the 

hushed intrigue of leaves and blowing

air humming early autumn; how

it mocks the simple songs you sang in

grammar school. tune out light, turn off

shadow, seasons spent under heady

branches. focus

like the thing to remember about wind: she 

sometimes was gentle- before the constant

storms, before quixotic wars, remember

she didn't always howl and wail, but whispered

through your hair and cooed, clean

before the ashes fell.

remember to focus. little things, like about

the sky: birds. the city: lines (sharp) defying

nature's bow-hipped dance. a world re-

con-structed, your mercenary home, in sound

bytes and silhouettes. remember:

history, memory, despises scope. focus. cut

the fat. your childhood, a tree. a soothing voice, 

cool wind. a lifetime boiled down to scratches 

and caws: your universe in a single

frequency. now focus. it's important to remember.

Mud: A love story

These tubes and tunnels, deep

in flesh- insatiable roots- dig

low, hard, suck marrow

from dusty bones: at once

tree and earth

muddled mouth and victuals.

What I Think About (When I Think About) You and What You Said

About the time in second grade

when I pissed my pants waiting

for the buss because the door with

the boy on it was locked and you

misread the schedule. I think

about missions to mars

and moonflights and nights

drinking coffee at twelve years

old, up on the roof, or eating

milk-bones for the taste. About 

misspelled words and Victorian

poetry. About thinly veiled 

political messages. Propaganda

and penis jokes. I wonder what 

King meant when he said he had

a dream, and if it was anything

like the ones I have when I've

had too much to drink and I can't

sleep with the TV or the radio

or both. Or I think about the time, at 

seventeen, I popped a Prozac 

and thought I'd have a heart attack

and I remember my first gay friend

and wonder if he ever got to be

happy before the truck swept

him off the side of the road. I 

think about the stamp tax and tea

parties and sleeping alone and I think 

it must have something to do 

with the current economic crisis and

nothing to do with you filling my

black duffle bag with makeup and

tampons and slamming the door on

your way out: going. going. gone. 

Boxes

All my dreams consist of cutting

open boxes of old

things, old memories, all darkened

somehow. I'm told

that memories are the only 

things we can really hold

on to, so I dig and pry all

night. But it's cold

here in this basement and my eyes 

are tired as I unfold

the thing I must be looking for;

and though the mold

and dust have taken residence here,

I swear I see clearly

for the first time in days. In my 

dreams, I hear the

laughter of tiny boys, swimming

naked in hot summer

pools, eating melon sliced thick, their

pregnant mother

bathing in the sun. It goes fast, 

then nothing- no dreaming thing bold

enough to cross into the world

of wake, to hold

a place beyond its place. The warmth

gone, I'm gripped by the cold

night. And memory's all that's left,

or so I'm told. 

some poems

My Drug Years

Exhibit A: sixteen and I'm taking

the Long Way. There's this ally, right behind

the Baptist church on Maple, where you can

climb right up under some yuppie's garage

and blow your mind. I go there and I think

of all my possible lives. I steal a truck

and bust through to Mexico, stop in a barrio

and find myself a sweet little brown

lipped girl, her hair thick like licorice and eyes

burning coal. Something simple and sweet and

cheap. Dark heavy smoke climbs up to 

the alley, and I'm stage left, New York City,

blood-drenched and sweat-stained,

slinging my guitar like Jesse James- a real outlaw.

After the show, I bang some groupies

and railroad track my arms.

Confession: I think about sex in

Sunday School. It's cheaper than sports

and simple like slit wrists. While the

slick hair sits up front and preaches "love

thy neighbor," I think about loving 

my neighbor's daughter, then snap. I stand up

tall, raise my awkward hands to heaven, stretch out

two scrawny fingers and speak in tongues 

they'll never understand. They pray. I resist. (It's the 

punk thing to do.) I reach God in spite of their

religion. Not in their church, but in my 

records: buried deep in the grooves. She delivers me in power

chords and liberty spikes. 

Exhibit X: nineteen and it's independence

day. There's this spot, just west of town

where you can see the sky light up from the

ditch bank. It's there we fill a silver Camry with

thick gray smoke and breath deep. It's there 

I see God face to face and She asks me: (God has 

questions, too) What's the deal with the

Sex Pistols? The Clash were so much more

revolutionary. And I think, "Why wouldn't 

God be a punk rocker?" And when you think

about it, the Clash really are the better band. 

And then it hits me: Maybe I'm not the one

who missed the point. 

Maybe I'm Reading Too Much Into This

I pulled a book from the bottom shelf and scanned

for words that might mean the gentle slip of your hand

as it grazed my upturned hip. I looked for words

to feel as heavy, or slick as the cords

of hair I parted and pulled, sliced my way through, 

thick as desert nights. I lit a match while you

slept, let it tickle page and paragraph, my fingers damp

as the flame licked: deliverer, annotated, death camp.

I thought you woke once- the way you turned, then turned

again; the way you sighed as books and bedsheets burned. 

August

I wake first, curl into 

your rounded back. Tight fisted

and fetal. It's 

slow here and time

has no use for me, 

so I wait a while before peeling

back the sheets, then

make my way to the

bathroom sink.

My face looks different in the dark, 

somehow, and I wonder what it is

you see when our eyes meet,

heavy and damp, or

how you love, like the rest

of us, what you cannot

know. I imagine things like earthquakes,

and what I'd do if you suddenly 

died, and the night breathes

down my neck, thick wet

heat. I 

switch on a light, then flick

it off again.

I wrap myself in the white 

sheets, try to find the warmth

left behind, then pull my arm

across your side, and wait

for your breath to break this

silent night; but it's slow coming and

I wonder, again, what I'll do 

when the earth finally quakes. 

in the beginning...

God created the heavens and the earth. And I created this little sanctuary of sorts. You could say it's an attempt to make my life and craft just a little more outward. Like a very wise woman once said, "We'll see..."