The color cast on the water yesterday evening at Coronado was less a shade of blue and more a melange of purples: lilac, heather, periwinkle, suffused over a deep eggplant… I hadn’t seen a sea like that before. It was gorgeous. The sun made its casual descent over Point Loma.Continue reading “Born Into Purple”
Taylor Swift’s “cabin in candlelight” version of her new song “cardigan” carries a good whiff of Lana del Rey influence. I’ve read Taylor say she loves Lana’s lyricism. When I first heard T. Swift’s song earlier this week, I chuckled to myself about the marked influence and thought I wouldn’t be too moved by the song. Taylor trying to do Lana? Nah… Continue reading “Safe to Cry”
- Drink water.
I’m not telling you to drink water instead of something else. Nah, it’s not my place to judge; I went straight to the fridge for a beer after getting home from work this evening. To my dismay, the only beer found there was a half-drunk bottle of boochcraft of my boyfriend’s from, oh, a month ago. (Who saves their unfinished boochcraft?!)
Continue reading “How To Feel Better #1: Drink Water”
Over the past few years, I have been reading and subsequently burning my old journals. I began journaling at age seven, so in the past few years I have read twenty years’ worth of journals.
My favorite part of the day today
in the break room at work, mid Friday
among the light of the February sun
was Micah standing there with the flowers.
When you are an open vessel, when you are open to life and the living of it, then a lot of the impressions of this Earth, a lot of the dust swirling around in commotion, a lot of ideas and feelings are going to pass through you.
Feelings, feelings, feelings, swirling, swirling, swirling. Feel them full.
Whoever said that everything you need to know in life can be learned in high school English class was onto something.
With a light green pen, age 17, I copied the following information into my class notebook. Continue reading “Organized Innocence”
Sappho says that to die is evil: so the gods judge. For they do not die.
What fuller beauty than beauty
willing to surface,
subtilement exposé, every
where to be found.
Many elements in my microcosmic corner of the universe have aligned such that the past 72 hours of my life have been a splendid pause of poetic experience. A pause because the heat of midwestern July and the lack of paid occupation allow for a comfortable lethargy, a slow motion of a still scene. Continue reading “for here there is no place that does not see you”
Intense girl stares down at paper,
zeroes in on the black heart of
her heroine. How must the
senses submerge? Ben Howard
sings “these small things, they gather
’round me, gather ’round me.” My
nail polish, black cherry, chips. Continue reading “Black Cherry”
The afternoon of our desire,
the cat napping in the barn,
the carnival tears of merriment and
the mess of dreams in mornings
when things came to mind—this
density of living among the dead kept
flowers in our mouths after
each mean and powerful rain.
You were not like the others—you
stood there facing the wood like
nothing fell around you. There was
the backside of your body,
the haze around your head,
and your terrible calm amid
whatever braved a movement. In
any phase of five minutes you’d
steal the galaxies, take them
under your gaze, and you were
shameless as a voyeur,
ruthless as a pioneer.
It occurs to me that one can be too conscious. The metacognitive processes involved in writing require, for those of us with hoarding minds, the same kind of patience, stamina, and downright courage it takes to clean out the attic, to assess the contents one by one. Continue reading “The Attic”
I recall Joni Mitchell once said something about the pressure she felt in youth, a surely mounting pressure, to be great–to make one’s expression dance in unison with one’s soul—, and I say “mounting” because these pressures accumulate with the years. Time tends to carry on like the breath of a sad singer’s song; the phrase finished, the sounds produced, she must then gasp for air in the intervals, if to continue the tune. Continue reading “The Wings”
There is a bell tower in the courtyard behind our apartment, and three minutes after I awoke to Erik’s soft goodbye kiss, it rang eight beats, like two measures in 4/4 time, to mark the 8 o’clock hour. And so the day began like a song. One, however jet lagged, cannot fall back asleep after such a composed start. Continue reading “A Home in Holland”
european kitchens, bread crumbs abound
locking locks to insides
it is good to be out in the world
good to try
a netherlandish sun opened up
I saw it
I saw it spread over the bodies of
black boy, black girl
age seven, age five
hand in hand, as they walked along
a long, narrow street
Roaming, falling, burning,
Dying as you live and
Stand tall in the frame of
and the blue of your eyes
like the space of the skies
and I’ve never gazed so long into what I cannot touch
and I’ve never held so near what blinded me.
But night falls
like burning stars
and eyes close
like turning doors.