Still thinking about not thinking about

3 o'clock. Ahh. When I can say, "Ha HA! It's 3 o'clock!" Meaning on Fridays at 3 I can say goodbye to the little children and senior citizens I work for and have come to love and get my nose in some numbers. Work week financial analyzing. And I actually like it. Couldn't pass math to save my life, but aha! this isn't math dear friends. This is numbers!

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SamRex, last night in my dream, I was you, and you were rocking out some bad-ass Tom Petty. I just remembered that. I just redecorated my gmail to ice cream cones!

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Oh irony. You fucking kill me. Basil dear, I saw your painting. 300 Beds is it?

Anyway like I said, I found my gmail account again. Come back to me across the Universe (I heard the news today, oh boy) and I found some bits that make me smile:


The Distinction of the Seasons

April, March, May, then August— the women
months become confused; it is why time is essential,
but what of July?, what of June?

What does it mean, the counting of parts,
down to our knees, you don’t know mine.
Fingers, toes. Our craft is in passing
the calender days one at a time.

And then, brush brusque, Autumn enters—
as man; pushing us down, we pull dimes from the piles.
Composted leaves— fingers quickly through them.
The soil, the air, cold coins in our palms.

Then today was the day that we broke in the Fall.
Lock pickers and scavengers of the seasons, we are
women, honed this craft with our bobby pins and credit cards.
The leaves blend with grocery lists, dried Bible pages,
pods of seeds. Enter into the whole, what gender then
the Winter, even still, the Spring?

And yet, known.

I have my warm wrapped, thick woman legs
to walk me and move me through Winter’s cold winds,
but as Winter knows, people are not islands—
And he moves in, and he moves in,
like with warm washing waves,
lapping at skin, he moves in

(A practice in rhythm, one of my all time favorite exercises, not to any matter the result).



Wedding Poem

The making of our name, as we made it.

Printed it up on stock card invitations. A marriage, union of names. Gave up were not my words.

The bridesmaids were all giddy drunk.

After an hour, the best man was nowhere to be found.

The way I thought about it. The way it was planned. Begin with the letter A, but not her, my defiant bride. An idea stolen from a poem she’d read written by a child, accidentally found.

The flower girl was found squatting, mulberries smashed on her dress and face. Are mulberries poisonous, we asked ourselves and I ran from her screaming outstretched arms.

White dress waving. Gave up were not my words.

(For a friend. She was thinking about getting married. I jotted this down on a napkin and gave it to her. She thankfully changed her mind, for then.)

Ahh the things I don't have the desire for anymore...