poetry

boy’s haiku

you speak too much child

keep him quiet, still, sitting

boyhood suffocates

Advertisements
Standard
poetry

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

Standard
prose

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?

Standard
poetry

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

Standard