April 27, 2015 § 4 Comments
Perhaps memory is a string of beads
we add to day by day.
My brother has that kind of memory.
Thorough, sequential, detailed.
Perhaps memory is an old home movie
Clicking through a projector,
the color shifted
Perhaps memory is a stone
lying on the riverbed so long
all the rough edges
have worn away.
April 14, 2015 § 5 Comments
He was safely back, infinite once again, the self-without-end—and he was breathless.
The idea had been so simple, to live as his creation did, briefly, vividly, fueled by aspirations, appetites, dreams and fears, and to do it as all who lived and died must, without anything more than the collective rumor about something greater that hid behind the sky.
That unprovable belief justified the brevity of life, the inevitability of death, and gave meaning to both.
So he hid who he was from himself and was born, delivered out of a dark sheltering safety, with tears and straining muscles, into the arms of a mother.
Though her lips were cracked from the dry heat of the place and she was exhausted, she was the beautiful sun at the center of his universe.
April 7, 2015 § 7 Comments
and the thing under the bed is real.
But floating on the downstairs-murmur
of grownup voices
you drift into sleep, safe.
You’re not popular but you have
this one friend
who isn’t popular either but
as long as you are not popular together
You heard there’s a boy who might like you.
At least he’s thinking about it.
Plus Christmas is coming
and maybe this year
get a dog.