Does he not understand the physical properties of glass?
or that the barrier of the material is not an indicator
of one's relative proximity
(to the other side?)
He does realize we're right here
- right? -
Or did he somehow get this far in life
under some sort of misconception that
"opaqe" and "clear"
are, indeed, synonyms?
No. Maybe he just missed that day in school
Or maybe he has never painted his nails
Or used a camera
Or bought a light bulb
Or ever had to distinguish between two types of pantyhose.
How does he look at us like that
Why does he look at us like that
He must not realize that we see him
every move of every muscle
on his face, that same face who was must have been absent that day at school
when the kids also learned that saying about not throwing stones if one lives inside a particular type of house.
Those who don't speak know everything.
Those who don't know speak nothing.
"Nothing", no one said
was said by anyone.
If we didn't believe that no one
was anyone who didn't know,
how comes it no one never wrote any words about it?
This latest serial killer in London -
the same dog-walker
discovered two of the bodies
on two separate walks
less than a week apart.
Sometimes life didn't deal us lemons.
Who do people tell you
That you look like
That you dislike
Sometimes when I'm alone at night
when the space sneaks in between
and my mind turns on.
And always, it occurs to me, again.
That the only thing that I know in life to be true -
Is that THIS reality
and everything that comes with it
has no name
has no number
has no locus
has no bounding box
except the ones that we assign
which are nothing more than memories
inside the walls of a maker's mind.
Ten Minutes Left to Mars
Ten minutes left to mars tonight
And forever in between
Ten minutes, minute, minus mini-it
Minute mini minuets marching
Softly swiftly sweetly somewhere else,
Synchronized in three quarter time
In a silent sideways soft shoe ballet
Headed out again,
Away, away, away.
I wish I was a minute
When there's ten minutes left to mars
I'd pull some Irish exit shit
And go hang out with the hours
And know that in my absence
There is nothing there
I'd know they know they know that too
I'd know they say "she never stays",
But it's true.
and never do.
I'd watch them watch me float away
As the moon floats away from the stars
And I'd know they'd wish there was more of me
When there were ten minutes left to mars.
The Last Time I Saw the Ocean And Then I Never Went Back to Work Again.
I remember the last time I saw the ocean, it was the first week in February of this year in Naples, Florida. My husband's family was involved in a complicated legal battle with a large bank, the details of which I was not then and am not now familiar, nor interested. Work had been extra shitty, I had a new boss who was becoming increasingly passive-agressively hostile toward me, which is my least favorite quality in a boss (though one I've for whatever reason encountered numerous times). I decided that I would take family leave under FMLA and stay the week with my husband and his family at the beach condo while the trial was going on so as to have a chance to get away from Chicago, and mostly from work, and clear my head a bit.
I remember arriving at the condo around 11pm, the air had that super "dewey sweet"quality you always hear people reference but (at least where I come from) never experience aside from maybe one time at camp when you were a kid (though that memory may well be fabricated, I don't really know) or possibly a couple times during college after partying way too hard and walking home as the sun rises (though in those memories that smell brought on dread, self loathing, and nausea, so that's probably not relevant I guess). But the air was dewey sweet, and in a good way, like in a way where you still have a night to sleep and and a day of sun and ocean and relaxing ahead, so it's all good. That's how it smelled.
It was dark out I didn't care, I could hear the ocean and I could see the ocean and I could see the sand and I wanted to sit in all of it, so I ran through the house, flipping my shoes off and shedding my winter coat on the way, out the back door and onto the beach.
It was calm. It was rhythmic. It was quiet. And it was big. I shed my socks (which I never found) and rolled up my pants and went in, it was warm. The gulf water is always warm, around this time it was about 72 degrees. I stood there for a while. I looked at the moon. I thought about my dad. I tried not to think about work but flashes of intermittent worry crept in every now and again - I tried my best to dismiss them, and breathe.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. OH HOLY SHIT WHEN MARIE SAID THAT SHE DIDN'T CARE IF I TOOK THIS WEEK OF IS THAT BECAUSE SHE KNOWS SHE'S GOING TO FIRE ME WHEN I GET BACK ANYWAY? Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Dad. Wonder how the Maya Angelou doc is coming. I love Dad. Dad'd tell me that work isn't worth stressing over, everything is as it should be, and we must except that. Except that, and breathe. Breathe. Breathe. ...But not that quickly. No, not that quickly, it's fine. OH SHIT NO IT'S NOT I TOTALLY FORGOT TO ATTACH A THIRD EXAMPLE IMAGE TO THAT DOCUMENT GOD DAMNIT THERE'S ONLY TWO TWO ISN'T ENOUGH THERE NEEDED TO BE THREE MOTHERFUCKING GOD DAMNIT I'M SUCH AN IDIOT. ...Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It's nice out here.
"Your infant hair was ALWAYS sopping wet. Deodorant at Four!"
for Peter Tosh
I am that I am that I am that I am that I am
and I speak me and I speak loud
and I speak what I feel
and what I know and what I am
and yeah I'm aware
that It's comes from somewhere else than you and they and them and there
but I am who I am
and you are you, mostly.
and they are those and that is them
But I'm me and nothing else
And I'll be that thing that I am, I am, I am,
till the end of the end of my days.
Moonset Over West Chicago
Today is Day Number One.
I asked the moon, “What should I be doing?”
“Do what you always did when you felt everything so closely and so much was was happening.”
I asked, “how should I be?”
“Be the way you are when there is no one else, nothing else that matters except what you want to do.”
“Moon, are you friendly?”
And it glowed a perfect soft white glow,
radiating outward from it’s circumference a perfect halo of magenta and fuschia
that sang into my eyes
and fell out of my face.