blog, poem

XXVI

I ran around for a couple hours on Sunday; the sun was spilling yellow all over the place, and the city kids had it stuck on their clothes. When I finished, when my legs fell out from underneath, I tore open an orange and took in that nectar, that orange juice.

Two hours before, I watched a video of a man yelling into the desert sky, hollering about the urgency of being on the planet. The man cares and you can hear it in his voice. He’s out there yelling “your lungs are temporary” and “this dirt is so special” and “ah!” all loud, all over the desert. Listen to this man.

Listen to him!

Makes me want to shout it out. This earth is so goddam special. Being alive is jazz hands. I am so stoked about this.

Met a chick a couple nights ago who asked if I thought she was a “tit” and it made me laugh out loud. A real good chuckle, as I waddled back to my subaru, hobbling on my achey knee (on account of all the sun-running). That laugh echoed into the chilly night.

Dipped this mint tea bag into the hot water and took it in.

Stop listening to the shitty irony. The type of nonchalance that spews from the mouths of folk who grew up thinking it’s cool to not care about anything. I am so sick of this. I am so vehemently sick of this. Instead, you must rip out your heart and staple it to your sleeve.

I’m calling you out. Give it up.

The only two resolutions I’ve given myself this year are to give more gifts and meet more people. I think about my uncles who would walk around town shaking hands with everyone, holding doors open, making the chat. People love that shit. I love it, too, when the chat is nice and easy. I want to say hey to more strangers.

I’ll run a marathon in february. I’m not ready, but you’re never ready. That goes for it all.

Sometimes you have a dream that you’re waking up next to your old lover, and you don’t think twice about it. You just roll over onto them and fall back asleep in their hair. There’s no doubt that you can love someone your whole life, regardless. I wish we could be more honest about that.

Fuck, shit, and goddam are three words that academia is lacking.

Dallas Clayton is teaching us how to love again.

Wherever you go, leave flowers in your wake.  Leave flowers in your wake, burn pastel memories into the gray.

I’d like the girl I love to be there, at that race. I’d like her to be holding up a sign that says something good, something that gets my toes to the very end. I haven’t been too good about keeping love around, but I’ll work on it. One day, she’ll be there, and she’ll love me, and I’ll love her right back.

You gotta tell people exactly what you want, because traffic is loud and everyone is on their phones. Say it slow and well, and do 80%. Only then will you find your help.

I don’t think we need coffee scented candles, really. You just gotta put a pot of coffee on.

Certain words just grab the eye right, like “occult” and “pestilence”. The best part about writing is juggling around the alphabet and bending up all the rules. Lots of folks tell me I write nice, and I always tell them to read Kurt Vonnegut.

I read more Vonnegut this december. He has a way of springing up from the page and flopping right into your tomato soup:

he was watching the clouds. they were lovely things, and the sky they drifted in was, to the color-starved space wanderer, a thrilling blue.” – The Sirens of Titan

“A thrilling blue.”

That’s a good juggle.

I don’t preach it a lot, but eating vegetables is the truth. Everything else is poison.

Bowling is also the truth. Don’t chill with anyone who doesn’t want to bowl. They’re probably the same kids tweeting about wanting to die (ironically), forgetting that they will (unironically).

When your birthday comes around, take a minute to read all the comments. Chances are, you’ll be taken back to a real happy time with everyone that scribbles on your wall. Chances are, most of these people won’t know each other. But they all know you.

Weed is worth smoking once, but it’s not worth smoking once a day.

I want to give more gifts because it taps into the real warmth. Better if the gift isn’t something you can buy. For some odd reason, I think about the line Bradley sang back in ’95, about giving all your money to charity. The Chili Peppers sang about the same thing. A lot of us teeter on the edge of giving it all away.

I think we give it all away when we run marathons. When we conceive. When we teach a class, when we jump off a bridge somewhere tethered only by our ankles. When we hold up signs in the bitter wind at the end of the race.

I ran around for a couple hours on Sunday; the sun was spilling yellow all over the place, and the city kids had it stuck on their clothes. When I finished, when my legs fell out from underneath, I tore open an orange and took in that nectar, that sweet orange marmalade.

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Into The Mirror

Everything’s the same.  It’s just a little different.

I have a heavy heart. The whole world is out there killing each other, like maniacs, like a bunch of children who don’t get their way. As if the last thousand years taught us nothing; or simply, that many folks have no grasp of human life, of human suffering, of the love that weaves us all together. I didn’t lose anyone this weekend, but I know someone who did. It hurts. It hurts all over.

I went to bed at 5:00 three times this week.

Like the last time, when the clown went into the theater and started shooting. Or the time before that, when the kid went into the school full of little kids and started shooting. Or when the student went into the lecture hall and started shooting. Or when those two kids went into the high school and started shooting. Or when the watch-guard went into the neighborhood and started shooting the kid with the skittles. Or when the men in masks went into the cartoon room and started shooting.

I am empty.

And the whole world will feel this way for a week or two, and then everything will be the same again, but just a little different. We will all commit to never forget, only to forget, until they start shooting again. They will be different people, in different places, in different masks. But it’ll be the same: another chill that veils the humans of the world in a gripping, but distant, paralysis.

Everything’s the same. It’s just a little different.

I can’t seem to get away from November. Like three years ago, when I lost you. I unraveled. I walked around with my hood on, wandering in the wind. Like last year, when I lost you again. I didn’t drive anywhere for a little while. I didn’t want to get in my car, because I knew it wouldn’t take me to you. Like right now, I’m losing you one more time. I’m walking around with this feeling, this feeling that feels like porcelain fingers on a baby grand, in a cement corridor, the taste of lukewarm earl grey. The waking up at 3:00am, the blinks before you realize it wasn’t a dream. The lack of appetite, the lack of appetite to eat a sandwich, to play, to do all those things I used to do. The solitude, the scribbling of poetry and the exchanging of glances with the passerby’s I’ll never meet. The melancholy chuckle. The early evening.

This November, it’s the same. It’s just a little different.

And so when I see the woman on the bus whose face looks just like a fingerpainting, madness and all, in brown flats and red stockings and a peculiar gaze, that of a hurricane, I’m struck with the art that we can all be sometimes. And when I dry my dripping scalp and pause, shivering, and ache for the towel that wrapped around me once before, the one you used to keep for me, I’m struck with the art we can all be sometimes. And when the gunman unloads his final magazine into the skull of the earth, and the thought of your death is why I skipped lunch, and the ribs of my stomach stretch out to catch my fleeting breath, I’m struck with the art we can all be sometimes. And when I look into the mirror, and it’s the same face as yesterday, only a little different, and some mornings I’m afraid of the person I’ve become, I’m struck with the art we can all be sometimes. 

And I remember that, just like last time, it’ll all be the same again. It’ll just be a little different.

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