you speak too much child
keep him quiet, still, sitting
boyhood suffocates
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Monthly Archives: September 2014
to do, this weekend:
– meal plan for the forthcoming week, fail to execute plan
– shower
– clip finger nails
– manage mustache
– feed children at least once maybe twice
– bathe children at least once maybe twice
– remember that this is all temporary, remember that I hate when people say that, its not helpful or accurate, I mean what scale are we working with here, temporary relative to what
– buy food, try to cook food, hate food, hate cooking, do it anyways, selflessly
– remind myself that I am selfless, a mother, a selfless mother, a self-identified selfless mother, even better
– eat tortillas out of the fridge when no one is looking, maybe with mustard, maybe just plain
– pray for the energy to finish the dishes, scrubbing with hands and soap and waning strength, finish dishes, feel elated
– find bedroom, half-alive, step over unidentifiable things in the dark, crawl between probably dirty sheets, let thoughts drift silently and free across still air, out the window, down the sidewalk toward joggers and sleeping babies in strollers, couples out on first dates, hopeful, naive
– repeat tomorrow, except with more vigor, except with more patience, and less frozen food
fill in my blank
I _____ you.
Do you _____ me?
Hope drifts endlessly through the sea.
BUT I’M NOT SMILING
hopeful texts
pregnant with intent
no doubt
only grasping
pictures of children
bible verses
and the worst:
: )
any use of
: )
is an over-use
I always say
I tell you this
but of course
you do it
anyway
Death Trap, a novel
I always wanted to write a book since I can remember. But not because I wanted to write a book as much as I wanted to title a book. It’s basically the same reason I wanted to have children, the naming. That’s the fun part in either situation. Anyways I always wanted to write a novel and call it Death Trap. Maybe a memoir since I’m not especially good at making things up.
I was at the library yesterday and on the shelf I saw a novel called Death Trap. Just sitting there looking at me pretentiously aloof. I was both sad and irritated, although this is my general disposition on most days so who knows. But one thing is for certain, I need to come up with another title. But what’s the point of writing a book called something else, anyways? Maybe I should call my memoir that, Something Else, not Death Trap. How’s that for pretentiously aloof?
a short poem about nature
I can’t write about nature
because I don’t really care about nature
there I said it
memory throw-up
a bicycle thief
along the waterfront
a crew cut in summer
a book about poems
gimme that shelter
a collage of diamond eyed kids
a documentary from India
a midcentury table
a naive melody
some pour over coffee
a train ride to upstate
to see pretty things
a needle in the hay
the damage done
a love note on motel paper
a grilled cheese on wheat
things we lost in the fire
cats, European shoes
still in San Diego
suede with marigold straps
terrible angels
the gathering darkness
moved out of Venice
to holier ground
friend of the devil
Denver in winter
tattered cover, Paris
buzzed and blue eyed
heart of gold
church songs, my favorite
midnight pancakes after we did it
americana sunday after you told me
see you on a dark night
under sheets eyes meet
old news, moody blues
imitation, impostor, serenity prayer
there comes a time
christmas lights, backyard camping
water breaks, los angeles takes
the king is gone but not forgotten
