unfinished thought

it's not that his smiles are any less charming
just because he uses them to punctuate
the joyful buckings of a healthy little body
at three o'clock
on monday morning

Of Watercress and Less Important Things

Thanks to ursprache for somehow inspiring this train of thought.

The other day as I lay half-awake
I realized that for at least two days
my life had not ventured further than the mailbox,
which is right next to the front door.

And that really, when it came down to it, I was just fine with that.

Sunbathing on the patio
Sleeping baby inside
Cold grapefruit juice with the luxury of a straw

My life does not need words like confusificate or tumescent
to describe it.
I talk about other people's lives like that, sometimes.
But mine--well, maybe I should expand my vocabulary.
I'd really like it to include words
like watercress
and gesundheit and chiffon.
Those are good words.
I guess I'm just not quite ready to move on to delving into
the language of despondence and murky sexualism
till I have put a bit more watercress into my life.
I am still stuck at a point
where I clip coupons that I always forget to use,
and covet Audrey Hepburn's timeless elegance,
not to mention her figure,
and wish I could grow red geraniums in a window box
just because they stand for hospitality.
And I suppose I'll be here for a long time
before I ever make it to watercress,
let alone gesundheit.
So be it.
I'll get there someday.
Don't wait for me, though.
I feel like I might come across a few more important entries in the dictionary
between chiffon and confusificate.

Hardcore

And she is hard.
I knew her once.
That night her lips were cherry red.

(I should have written this before,
The day it all ran through my head.)

There's strength, and there's the strong. And then
there's crabs.
You know, with hard-ass shells.
The skeleton is all outside.
Inside, it's all just gooey wells.

I just don't know.
I understand that wearing hearts pinned on your sleeve
Is too much like the children's games,
Where someone snatches, laughs and leaves.

But this--where did it go? and when?
The words are sticking to my pen.
I'd laughed and said, "You're so hardcore."
She didn't smile though.
"I am."

And suddenly my little life
Just shriveled up and ran and hid.
I'd planned to meet her there.
But where's the girl I knew when we were kids?

Candid Shots

After that weekend in Seattle last spring, I found myself spending hours at a time scribbling lists of phrases in no particular order in random notebooks, trying to capture a thousand memories. I keep stumbling across those pages. Sometimes, it seems better not to try to organize the fragments. They are what they are.

Bittersweet
Life is made of pictures.
Plowed furrows flashing by,
Perspective, all angled from the flying shadow outward,
From the shadow of a little enclosed adventure.
Laughter
Loud music
Love somewhere inside.
And yes, I volunteered to sleep on the floor so I could

at least be next to him

within arm's reach.

They say it's always rainy there.
It was sunny for us
Sunny, and purple benches, and purple flowers,
And pictures in sepia tone in little corners of a garden.
Smooth bark that was hard to keep a seat on.
Sunny over in line with the emo kids

in the rain.

Sunniest in that dark basement of a venue,
With hot sweaty bodies and too much noise
That shook the dust from the ceiling.
Sunniest there.
For me at least.

I don't remember any rain, those days.
I still have the key to that place,
And the ferris wheel ticket,
And the band ticket,
And the parking ticket,

the good kind, of course.

Life is made of candid shots.