blog, poem


I want to stand in awe of you.

I want to point my lens and linger over the shutter with a boyish hesitation that leads only to a grin. The snow is heavy and falling in a gentle way. Like snow in a book. A blinking skyscraper radio antenna sets the cadence of the night outside. It is dreary cold, but we are warm and tangled.

Behind your bed, the wall collapses into a nook that runs the length of your body.  Cuddled into it, your body silhouettes, and I want to snap the shutter. Click.  The chilly air is humming against the window pane behind you, and beneath your feet falls twenty stories suspended by sand and steel. It is quiet. The city is still as the flakes gather on the dampened cement below. Down below, a taxi cab slides across the icy tar like a stick of butter on warm porcelain.

The red light blinks through the foggy glass. Blink. Blink. Like a toddler gazing upon a zoo-kept python, you press your nose against the pane and peer into the night. You are in awe, and me too. I want to tame your lion hair. It is a mane neglected, a worn trophy of the love made, a lazy fluff. Blink. The red light spreads opaque through the dewy cloud gathered on the glass.

In your bed I stretch my sleepy legs. They are sore from the run. In your bed I roll onto the heavy quilt and stare into the ceiling, like Galileo, like a child on an empty hill beneath the sky. Your bedroom is mine. You are mine. You are mine for now, and for ever, as a jumbled blotch of words and colors. The photos burned onto the frame are lesser than the ones in my head, the ones I want to form into words, into pages in a book. The snow falls like a story, and through the powdered haze, a distant red light flashes. Like shipwreck.

You are nestled in your window island, terribly far away. Terribly far away.

blog, poem


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.



Are there moments for you, too, when you accidentally order hot coffee when what you meant to say was iced, but you only realize this exactly after the talkative barista has delivered, by hand, all that lava into the cardstock cylinder, all just a little too late? And you haven’t the heart to say “shoot, I meant iced” out loud, but you’ve certainly said it quite a few times since, in your head, as if it could freeze the cup before your first sip. And the credit card reader feels like doomsday.

And so you’ve accidentally just dissatisfied yourself in a wildly unique way, because your iced coffee was supposed to be a ‘to: me, from: me’ kind of treat, since you scratched a somewhat annoying ‘to-do’ off the proverbial list earlier in the day, and it felt like swatting a particularly obnoxious gnat out of thick air, doing that thing you had to do.

And then you must have a quick chat with yourself about gratitude, because this problem is mostly a non-problem, even though ice cubes would’ve really done the trick.

And do you also feel guilty for ignoring the beggars, knowing full well that you could help, but also cannot help in the way that would be of permanent good use? And ignoring them is likely the best you could do, yet in your head you think, rationally, “it is not my fault, it is not my fault” etc. as you pass them, feeling lucky for putting your headphones in just before you left the coffee shop, if only to save yourself a little bit of that guilt.

And yet, at the same time, you wish you could sit down and chat, and listen to their story. This fantasy occurs to you every single time you pass them on the street. But you must talk yourself out of it because “what if they never leave me alone? what if they don’t stop talking? what if they recognize me next week and need to talk again, or worse, what if they’re actually psychologically batshit, you know, the muttering and spitting type?” and so you just keep the music on and concentrate very hard on looking forward. You realize it’s very hard to not look at something that you’re telling yourself not to look at.

You arrive home and by now the coffee is lukewarm. You lament the $2.00 that you threw away, but remind yourself of ‘gratitude and the man with bugs in his teeth,’ all those conversations you had in your head just now on the bus. So you drink the coffee, begrudgingly. And the only way to redeem the hot vs. iced fiasco from earlier is to browse the web for bedsheets, since, again, you owe it to yourself. And so you buy bedsheets, knowing they aren’t what you wanted, but it feels correct to press ‘purchase.’

And the high of spending money is quickly eradicated by another gnat in the room, which is the paralysis of knowing you cannot afford to spend any more money. But it feels somewhat serene, later, checking your email and seeing an order confirmation for full-size argyle, thread count: a thousand. And you marvel at the technology of the world! You marvel at ‘order tracking’ and ‘write a review’ and the idea of a postman, an honest, hardworking postman, dressed head to toe in uniform, wearing a tragically endearing hat, delivering the sheets to your doorstep, with a smile, as the cogs of this system whir, humming, locked in place, spinning in your favor.

And slowly, this too, feels like hot vs. iced.

And so you sit in this chokehold of needing things that bring you more gnats.