The talkative 7 year old has tired me out
Constant questions that he’s asked before, and for which I have no answers.
Constant comments and observations about everything.
And funny, cute, even seductive. I mean, how can ya not give the kid an ear?
He doesn’t like this bit of writing. Fuck him. I’ll post it anyway.
Why not speak in code? So many ways to say so little.
A bottle wrapped in a bag results in a bag shaped like a bottle. All the words make clear the shape of what isn’t be talked about.
I’m trying to say nothing these days, so I can glide invisibly, and weave my through, a mackerel in shark water.
Your past is clean garbage
We can be rag pickers and pull interesting things out of it
The day 40 Aprils ago that put such a twist in your ciruitry
That woman at the car wash
The time a firefly landed on the tip of your nose
Why you love pancakes
We can pick your garbage
But stay the hell out of mine.
At his end he was far down his personal hill.
The struggle for hope and something decent takes a toll, as dreams dry up and mistakes pile up. Crying to no one but yourself in the kitchen. How to get through ‘til bedtime.
Remind us of our duty, which is serve and protect. To recognize what is right, kind and merciful, and then do exactly that, regardless of what came before or comes after.
There are ever hills to climb.
The little sounds are the ones that get you.
The breathing of radiators, the click of the pipes, the tap of a shade cord on a window frame.
The sounds you have to strain to hear.
Cars passing and a jet from Kennedy don’t take me with them anymore. Life is the creak of a house, an acorn dropping on the roof, a squirrel chasing it.
Dangerous country you shouldn’t be in it again you were in it before and it did you no good and now you’re back and looking for that lost house you left your things in only now it’s more hidden that it was and the woods crawl with teeth and claws
“People die easier than some promises and some dreams”
That’s what’s on the sign post that’s mikes behind you now
Where do you go when it rains?
Do you find a nook somewhere, a branch, an overhang?
Are you by yourself or with others?
Do you count the minutes, and is it excruciating?
I’ll bet you merely sit somewhere, and wait, and watch, and the rain
goes as it comes
Barely noticed, just a thing that happens when it happens
It’s over now—you get a drink or take a bath
A puddle is good enough
I stand outside, looking for you
Looking for the simplicity of you
Everything rains on me
I wish I could wait, and watch
But what I see is the passing of the time that is left
And the water that spoils it