i wake to a mouse on the windowsill
all tiny and enlightened-looking
chase the cats around as the coffee is a’brewin
tellin ’em, i don’t want nobody to get hurt
they leave it alone
now i read kerouac by a single lighted bulb
get inspired to cook a lumberjack breakfast
waitin patient for my lovers gentle consciousness
the trinity river
the river runs west
she sprints to the ocean
is she blind to her wholeness?
no, she is neither ignorant nor vain
keeping the meat of her dirt
her beautiful mud-dirt
wading where she must
allowing who she may, unto her
occupied by much and by many
still offering herself west all along
no betrayal can spoil her fruit
for if you drowned, it was you
who got caught up
anyone coming near can plainly see
she may welcome you
but she will always
drugs that melt
keys that jingle
friends who bail
the weight of ice in a styrofoam cup
sniffles to say you’ve been crying
brown paper bags
too tight dog collars
pretending to care
sweat behind the knees
maybe we should drink
cigarette snipes (floating in a styrofoam cup)
tattoos that don’t stick
climbing trees and falling
when does falling become jumping?
flickering kitchen light
there is no right or wrong way
sometimes, title night
others, maybe not
we kissed on the floor
I said you taste like chemicals
I think she liked that
some days you may float on cracking ice
and know it.
that’s alright, I guess
one day I’ll be strong
fuck, I am strong
I am learning and grateful
I’m grateful for the ability to grow
I’m grateful for my able mind
fingers to write with
words to say with
I am saying words and enjoying it
i am present and grateful for the sobering today
Often I live a life of otherness. Each thought, fleeting. Each choice, brand new. I am dancing poorly and alone in our kitchen. Space 101: Northwest Music Radio. Holding an unread, paperback Dharma Bums in a right hand,
I think of dipping instead the skin of it into the coffee's boiling water. Just to see something. Books and people say they do shocking things just to feel something but I know better. They do it to see something.
See if they can, see if they mean it. Mean something, mean anything. I wrap my hand around the hot mug instead and hold it there. A dampened alternative that shouts into a hollow stump, "You never meant it!"
She comes in, giggling at the sight of me. Goggles hiding my eyes, boxers hiding my scars. Lounged about our kitchen stool in the dark, holding barefoot my mug. She kisses my nose and leaves me there.
I ponder this, if only for a moment. Predictably fleeting. I wonder if she is okay. When I kiss her I often miss her lips for it is teeth she truly bares.
I showered the stiffness out of my hair this morning. Seattle hit a record October cold and you're playing on your phone again. I can't help but yearn for the things I do not know. What am I blind to today? Who will I be tomorrow?
Surprise will not devour me this time. A digital gift to a wave of chronically bored recipients, you capture the beauty of your face in one hundred single moments. Maybe I should write about something else sometime.
There is an uncertainty rooted in my shaking hands. Am I to start preparing for a predictable hurt? Am I to stop? Both are naïve, drowning or wanting. Show me middle ground so I may know peace.
I'll find comfort in the sound of the space heater on the hardwood. We don't have toilet paper so we use socks with no mates.