Tuesday, October 09, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
the funny thing about life is that the more things change, the more things really do stay the same.
whoever said that was smart.
there are constants like the things we carry.
the bunched up sweater in the bottom of our suitcase.
the one with the new-this-winter moth hole.
the one you will not throw away because it is the perfect shade of orange.
the one that you will self-consciously wear because of the hole that's small enough to ignore
but large enough to be gaping.
like the cut on your leg last month when that wine glass somehow shattered inside your hand.
and the place in the wall with the dent
that needed patching in the morning.
there's a pile of luggage in the entryway.
and the zippers are breaking
spilling things that were hidden
into the space
Monday, August 27, 2012
for the first time in years.
but it feels like
creeping slowly through the
breathing in the sounds of the
assimilating first by dress
then by stature
by language and citizenship.
signing papers on a permanent line
that means stay
but do as you wish.
(here is the problem)
it's at my mouth, this life
it is suddenly at my lips
so close to my tongue
i can taste it.
but my tongue is just the gatekeeper
the drawbridge that let's you in
or keeps you out
with barbed wire words
and pointed fingers.
i yell at the cup.
fuck you for suddenly
pouring life out
fuck you, cup.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
this is way out of my comfort zone.
Monday, August 06, 2012
Thursday, August 02, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
looking for the storm.
it wasn't raining yet, but you could hear the sirens through the open garage door. the one that attached to the basement. the one that meant your basement wasn't actually all the way underground. the one your dad stood in, looking for the storm.
you sat on the brown lofa - a remnant from them before they were parents - and waited.
the wailing of the sirens got louder.
she tuned the radio to local AM and you heard something about a touchdown near lee's summit. it was headed toward you, they said.
you were cold and there were no blankets. everything you needed was in your bedroom. your comfort quilt. your dolls. your books and music.
"it's green out here," he said from the driveway.
"oh my god! look at the hail!" - you tried to ignore.
but your stomach turned sleep into knots
and she paced in the corner in a panic.
"get back in here," she yelled.
he yelled back, "no way. come look at this."
she didn't go.
there was this chasm that night between them.
her trying to keep him safe. him trying to find the eye of the storm. almost asking it to strike. yelling at the sky, "we're here! give us a show!"
the rain moved through washing down the street - the gutters flooding - pushing winter's guts up and out.
it was the first rain of the spring.
it cleansed him.
but you were never the same.