January 2012
5 posts
lost now in these few days & freedom…then I must return to that other place, and the everyday terror of people that the years do not yet take from me (December 2008)
The wildness in me stirs when he is around. How can I say it any other way, or live in the pallid portions when that remains the reality. Up from something primal and unknown, and it comes up again, always. How can the mere identity of another, brushing up against you like that dream of much destruction, stir.
Who could want wildness, or allow it in the civilized portions - the great untamed; is...
…for all of us.
The shards, after all, become the landscape, and most of us walk here with bare feet.
December 2011
6 posts
Creativity, then, the loose wire running through me; alive, and spattering potential annihilation - sizzled sparks in the accidental connection - drowsed personhood and the dancing wire: live, jumping in erratic awkwardness, hissing in white fire, then perfected in electric consummation…
Leaving identity electrocuted along the roadside to gather up later, skin still faintly scented of...
the young girl, again, writing
With her diffident shrugs, yawns and nonchalant comments, she seemed, at first encounter, indestructible.
And liked the image.
Made for a good PR.
Legend.
Volumes of correspondence, if you knew her, the habit from high school partings. Her friends kept her letters in plastic drawstring bags, hidden from their parents in the back of small closets, lodged somewhere behind the shoes. Returned the...
I don’t know, I don’ know, I dunno.
She said.
When you get to the I-dunnos, you have to start over. But where else to begin. There is no magnolia in this yard, the house is rented, it is hot, there is no air-conditioner, I put stray cats in the windows but the landlord says no. And anyway.
They fight.
I keep them in separate rooms. One is black, fat, beautiful. Her eyes are green...
November 2011
4 posts
I have entered into the nothingness, and it is not a place where I can live.
We might sometimes waken from a dream. Maybe, like a story we will try to tell. His story would be about a woman. Not an Annie Hall woman. Really, an impossible woman. It’d be easy to believe hers was a story that couldn’t be told.
Maybe that is where the best stories begin. In a place where you admit they are stories...
There is a gypsy in me.
Is there a gypsy in me, and if so, what do I do with her?
She beats against the pure in me, as a gypsy will, cagey and canny like one who lives by a moment’s wit. What do I do with her.
Or is she suppressed rage. Some corner I will not finally slip past to allow exposure. Girl as place of being.
Gypsy as doorknob of being. (2010)
There is a kind of woman who would, were your life spent in prison, decorate your cell with flowers and pillows and bright sayings cross-stitched and decorated—kittens and curlicues and outlined petals—framed in cheap plastic ovals or hung from plastic rods one and a half inches wide.
Maxims to cheer and give you fortitude in your ordeal.
She would be on the other side of the glass every time you...
July 2011
1 post
something about a woman in a white capri
June 2011
1 post
we don’t notice that we exist—
bite the very breeze about us
She sat each day in a stone room with a stone floor and three windows, drawing identical versions of imaginary flower petals, and many circles and the same haunted moon.
There are many redemption songs.
This is not one of them.
a repressed people
they ate pizza with a knife & a fork
May 2011
9 posts
April 2011
4 posts
January 2011
1 post
November 2010
2 posts
October 2010
5 posts
August 2010
7 posts
