thoughts – some from days gone by, some current
Don’t start leaving that body quite yet. I need it: there’s a laugh I left in its throat that I need returned. There’s a kiss caught in its lips, an embrace lodged in its arms, a love that runs along its spine like a silk ribbon and I can hardly be made to do without any of them.
Black Lives Matter. And we have to share that truth so that it is our truth. Not a truth caked over by Whiteness, that veneer…
I don’t know that they like me very much and today was a bad day with no you in it and me just bobbing about after getting cracked up against the fact that you can call it a new start all you want, but if you still have the old poison in the barrel…it’s going to be hard to pull out a good apple.
Those hopes to exist without risk, without presence or engagement, or bearing the weight of being the object in the lesson, they’re actually as unhelpful as a bathing suit in a blizzard. Because this isn’t that kind of life. As painful as the change thus far has been, it is not even the beginning of it.
In metaphor, good metaphor, you always find a little bit of truth. We say a lot of bullshit, but we wouldn’t say it if we didn’t want you to hear all the little words beneath it. These are the first words we learned. With no extraneous syllables to muddle it up. Me. You. Love. Hurt. Loss. Stop.
I made my own meaning in the absent man dreaming himself to his lover, surprising her with a kiss.
I don’t exactly know what I was thinking. I am flying across the ocean, over thousands and thousands of miles of salty, brackish waters of…
You can look at these men who say they don’t care about reading, they’re real big on weed, sea and otherwise, and exploring moon caves on their jet-powered mountain bikes…men who want to put a slug of coffee in you while they size you up and hurry back to the primordial ooze in case Botticelli picks them out a good one.
Watching Victory Garden on PBS with her, feeding egg shells and coffee grounds to the compost pile, digging and finding earthworms deep in black loam, working it back into recalcitrant clay, yanking the sharp spindly weeds, trying to step on the shovel to get down deep enough to get the root so it couldn’t come back.
This is a girl who could be mistaken for another girl and not as she is, a keeper of shadow and goblin-teeth.