Last Updated On November 30, 2020

 

these days, most of my poetry happens in woods, meadow and trail because only in those places the spirals and rot and meander make sense

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I’m learning to smile with my eyes and my words.
I have this superstitious feeling that if I don’t make more of an effort and I become more disconnected that people will become paper thin and illusory and somehow even more will be lost! I know this is just a wide awake nightmare, I mean my responsibility in it, but still I feel like I am holding on to torn edges and there are times when its imperative to hang on.
To each other.

I practice social immersion on myself. In my mind.
I am sitting in a crowded cafe. No phone. I let humanity’s songs wash over me. A crying baby,
the clank of dishes,
laughter…
“She is coming later..”
“..so we decided to take the long way”
“You have to be kidding me..”
“Maybe, who knows?”
Every fragment like confetti, a celebration.

So it will be a challenge, given that normally my eyes avoid connection and my words rarely arrive home but I will try to make up for my mask of a face and the mask on my face.

My face braces for the puff of heat or sting of cold with every portal. We escaped to the city, carelessly laughing, shouting, touching all manner of railings and elevator knobs and subway seats.
This was before.
We saw art. In person. We took in the architecture, intersections, nooks, and corners. We people watched and window shopped and ate in public. We walked and walked and walked. We were country mice and didn’t care. We looked up with our mouths open. We hurried up and slowed down for each other. We kissed a lot.

We paused breathlessly taking a tandem phone call, our foreheads touching, to hear of our daughter’s upcoming nuptials. In the background joyous yips from the dog park in Union Square.

We see David Byrne’s show, so full of hope we wished hard that it was real life. I cried uncontrollably throughout except for when I was singing or clapping or dancing or maybe it was a combination.
Everyone there is so happy.
My first album on CD was Naked.

“Helen! Come in here and listen to this!”
My grandfather gingerly donned the headphones of my newly acquired Sony portable. We both watched the disc spin. His eyes lit to the brass blast of Blind.

I did a spoken word version of Blind for English class, cue card style, tossing them aside like the INXS video for Mediate because I knew nothing of Bob Dylan. This wasn’t even the assignment. But it felt so authentic even though the words were not my own and I hated the class.
Poetry in my mouth.
Throwing things.
Perfect. My only regret would be not having more time to do both.

The lights!
The theater district holds a pervasive awakeness. Its hum invites us deeper into the warm glow of day inside night. It is energizing, everlasting, intoxicating, untethered youthfulness. Time outside of time.
It is still happening.
Right now.
I mean, on some other plane of course.

Hold on a minute. My palate feels heavy. Like its trying to kiss my windpipe.

We are astounded by our own heaviness, giggling in spite of our burdens. Chairs, totes, towels are tucked under arms and over shoulders but with every step we sink.
Then slide back two steps worth.
The slide was joyous on the way down, buoyed by the anticipation and want of the water. But now we are our more tired selves, taut and salty selves, squinty eyed and weary vigilant selves. Our feet trapped and burning, the tricky Cape sun having its way with us, while at the same time the children are up and over like water bugs with barely an exertion or evidence of their path between them. Sandy butts and tousled hair rushed by- spirits high and out of sight. As we continue our sisyphean trek I think, if only there was a way to weigh them down. Just a little.
To keep them closer,
For longer.
While I figure things out.

 

Last Updated On November 30, 2020

 

these days, most of my poetry happens in woods, meadow and trail because only in those places the spirals and rot and meander make sense

 

I’m learning to smile with my eyes and my words.
I have this superstitious feeling that if I don’t make more of an effort and I become more disconnected that people will become paper thin and illusory and somehow even more will be lost! I know this is just a wide awake nightmare, I mean my responsibility in it, but still I feel like I am holding on to torn edges and there are times when its imperative to hang on.
To each other.

I practice social immersion on myself. In my mind.
I am sitting in a crowded cafe. No phone. I let humanity’s songs wash over me. A crying baby,
the clank of dishes,
laughter…
“She is coming later..”
“..so we decided to take the long way”
“You have to be kidding me..”
“Maybe, who knows?”
Every fragment like confetti, a celebration.

So it will be a challenge, given that normally my eyes avoid connection and my words rarely arrive home but I will try to make up for my mask of a face and the mask on my face.

My face braces for the puff of heat or sting of cold with every portal. We escaped to the city, carelessly laughing, shouting, touching all manner of railings and elevator knobs and subway seats.
This was before.
We saw art. In person. We took in the architecture, intersections, nooks, and corners. We people watched and window shopped and ate in public. We walked and walked and walked. We were country mice and didn’t care. We looked up with our mouths open. We hurried up and slowed down for each other. We kissed a lot.

We paused breathlessly taking a tandem phone call, our foreheads touching, to hear of our daughter’s upcoming nuptials. In the background joyous yips from the dog park in Union Square.

We see David Byrne’s show, so full of hope we wished hard that it was real life. I cried uncontrollably throughout except for when I was singing or clapping or dancing or maybe it was a combination.
Everyone there is so happy.
My first album on CD was Naked.

“Helen! Come in here and listen to this!”
My grandfather gingerly donned the headphones of my newly acquired Sony portable. We both watched the disc spin. His eyes lit to the brass blast of Blind.

I did a spoken word version of Blind for English class, cue card style, tossing them aside like the INXS video for Mediate because I knew nothing of Bob Dylan. This wasn’t even the assignment. But it felt so authentic even though the words were not my own and I hated the class.
Poetry in my mouth.
Throwing things.
Perfect. My only regret would be not having more time to do both.

The lights!
The theater district holds a pervasive awakeness. Its hum invites us deeper into the warm glow of day inside night. It is energizing, everlasting, intoxicating, untethered youthfulness. Time outside of time.
It is still happening.
Right now.
I mean, on some other plane of course.

Hold on a minute. My palate feels heavy. Like its trying to kiss my windpipe.

We are astounded by our own heaviness, giggling in spite of our burdens. Chairs, totes, towels are tucked under arms and over shoulders but with every step we sink.
Then slide back two steps worth.
The slide was joyous on the way down, buoyed by the anticipation and want of the water. But now we are our more tired selves, taut and salty selves, squinty eyed and weary vigilant selves. Our feet trapped and burning, the tricky Cape sun having its way with us, while at the same time the children are up and over like water bugs with barely an exertion or evidence of their path between them. Sandy butts and tousled hair rushed by- spirits high and out of sight. As we continue our sisyphean trek I think, if only there was a way to weigh them down. Just a little.
To keep them closer,
For longer.
While I figure things out.

Last Updated On November 30, 2020

these days, most of my poetry happens in woods, meadow and trail because only in those places the spirals and rot and meander make sense

I’m learning to smile with my eyes and my words.
I have this superstitious feeling that if I don’t make more of an effort and I become more disconnected that people will become paper thin and illusory and somehow even more will be lost! I know this is just a wide awake nightmare, I mean my responsibility in it, but still I feel like I am holding on to torn edges and there are times when its imperative to hang on.
To each other.

I practice social immersion on myself. In my mind.
I am sitting in a crowded cafe. No phone. I let humanity’s songs wash over me. A crying baby,
the clank of dishes,
laughter…
“She is coming later..”
“..so we decided to take the long way”
“You have to be kidding me..”
“Maybe, who knows?”
Every fragment like confetti, a celebration.

So it will be a challenge, given that normally my eyes avoid connection and my words rarely arrive home but I will try to make up for my mask of a face and the mask on my face.

My face braces for the puff of heat or sting of cold with every portal. We escaped to the city, carelessly laughing, shouting, touching all manner of railings and elevator knobs and subway seats.
This was before.
We saw art. In person. We took in the architecture, intersections, nooks, and corners. We people watched and window shopped and ate in public. We walked and walked and walked. We were country mice and didn’t care. We looked up with our mouths open. We hurried up and slowed down for each other. We kissed a lot.

We paused breathlessly taking a tandem phone call, our foreheads touching, to hear of our daughter’s upcoming nuptials. In the background joyous yips from the dog park in Union Square.

We see David Byrne’s show, so full of hope we wished hard that it was real life. I cried uncontrollably throughout except for when I was singing or clapping or dancing or maybe it was a combination.
Everyone there is so happy.
My first album on CD was Naked.

“Helen! Come in here and listen to this!”
My grandfather gingerly donned the headphones of my newly acquired Sony portable. We both watched the disc spin. His eyes lit to the brass blast of Blind.

I did a spoken word version of Blind for English class, cue card style, tossing them aside like the INXS video for Mediate because I knew nothing of Bob Dylan. This wasn’t even the assignment. But it felt so authentic even though the words were not my own and I hated the class.
Poetry in my mouth.
Throwing things.
Perfect. My only regret would be not having more time to do both.

The lights!
The theater district holds a pervasive awakeness. Its hum invites us deeper into the warm glow of day inside night. It is energizing, everlasting, intoxicating, untethered youthfulness. Time outside of time.
It is still happening.
Right now.
I mean, on some other plane of course.

Hold on a minute. My palate feels heavy. Like its trying to kiss my windpipe.

We are astounded by our own heaviness, giggling in spite of our burdens. Chairs, totes, towels are tucked under arms and over shoulders but with every step we sink.
Then slide back two steps worth.
The slide was joyous on the way down, buoyed by the anticipation and want of the water. But now we are our more tired selves, taut and salty selves, squinty eyed and weary vigilant selves. Our feet trapped and burning, the tricky Cape sun having its way with us, while at the same time the children are up and over like water bugs with barely an exertion or evidence of their path between them. Sandy butts and tousled hair rushed by- spirits high and out of sight. As we continue our sisyphean trek I think, if only there was a way to weigh them down. Just a little.
To keep them closer,
For longer.
While I figure things out.