waiting at the Abigail

November 30, 2006

archive: summer 2006


archive: 5 october 2006

soft night on my face,
spider-web kisses
and traces of centipede lashes.
rolling rounded thunder-sounded
tastes in my mouth, heavy evening air
sweet and slow
lips tracing racing winds,
breathing a scent long gone.
sky divides lightning collides reverberates
echoes in bones
alone in the light of the doorway.
darkness drawing in behind,
i find
myself thinking and consciousness shrinking
insignificant and so magnificent.

hot heat sweat sweet
last chance last dance
no tears, no fears, foe nears
no gaining always raining
feigning intelligence

falling again and again.

summer skies drifting on the marina
friends all around as the night surrounds
and presses close.
stars and cars and bars
darkness flashes at the lighthouse passes
meteorites light the sky
flying dying (sighing)

infinitely infallible.

warm cave of the car –
comforting smell, no heaven or hell
only floating and laughing and being alone.
whited-out edges
now blends into then
forever becomes never and never is ever
and ever again.

memories criss-crossed and gold-embossed
edited and copywrited
and stacked on shelves, dressed in dust.
open volumes and life spills out –
let’s talk about what we’ve done,
who’s the one? what have we said?
we’re not quite dead.
the pages still turn,
the books still burn.

mystory bound in human skin
tau(gh)t and pale and smooth,
November skies soothe
always warmer than my knobbly fingers.
love always lingers,
undying high flying
it goes on and on and on
the blue beyond
divided a thousand times (a million rhymes)
cut in half and half and half again
until all that is left is the
blankest speck
the non-existent existence
a breathy whisper of what must have been
(because we tell ourselves so)
January nights come and go.

high-inducing thoughts from a sober mind
the mind is kind (so the doctors say)
but i doubt it every day.


following a victory

November 30, 2006

archive: 15 october 2006

an internal, maternal care-giving reflex, the body that is mine to cherish.  a responsibility bestowed by whom?

naked in front of the mirror a crowd of thoughts staring
skin soft from soap and steam
watery darkness lingering in creases, infantile
smooth soundless pale and quiet
fine downy hairs highlighted gold against the window.

relearning, assessing pressing a bruise –
how deep?  how long?  how painful?
a scratch stretching and etching,
scars like stars exploding over knee and thigh
bare, blank, beautiful.

my perfect imperfection.

silver silk afternoon light, ivy leaves waving in the autumn winds
arms high, breathing deep
rib cage expanding watching butterfly wings open and close
open, close
lines shifting internal change eternal
sun on hip, dipping into hollows
emphasize faults and triumphs of the machine of man.


i feel like i’m living in the twilight zone.

i have six rolls of film sitting on my dresser that i need to have developed.  i can’t remember what they’re pictures of.

there’s a scar on my forearm, and i can remember exactly where it came from.  actually, i can remember where a lot of scars came from.  i wonder, is it the same for other people?  

if i were to take your hand and point to that mark on your knuckle, could you tell me what had happened?  and if i were to lay my finger on the star across your collar, would you know the history?  and if i were to trace the pale line over your temple with my lips, would you whisper a story to me?

i miss this place.

golden rod and the 4-H stone – 
the things i brought you
when i found out you had cancer of the bone.

your father cried on the telephone
and he drove his car to the Navyyard,
just to prove that he was sorry.

in the morning, through the window shade,
when the light pressed up against your shoulder blade, 
i could see what you were reading.

oh! the glory that the Lord has made,
and the complications you could do without
when I kissed you on the mouth.

Tuesday night at the bible study,
we lift our hands and pray over your body,
but nothing ever happens. 

i remember at Michael’s house,
in the living room when you kissed my neck
and i almost touched your blouse.

in the morning, at the top of the stairs,
when your father found out what we did that night
and you told me you were scared.

oh! the glory when you ran outside,
with your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied
and you told me not to follow you.

Sunday night when i clean the house,
i find the card where you wrote it out
with the pictures of your mother.

on the floor at the great divide,
with my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied – 
i am crying in the bathroom.

in the morning when you finally go
and the nurse runs in with her head hung low,
and the cardinal hits the window.

in the morning, in the winter shade,
on the first of March, on the holiday, 
i thought i saw you breathing.

oh! the glory that the Lord has made,
and the complications when I see his face
in the morning in the window.

oh! the glory when he took our place,
but he took my shoulders and he shook my face 

and he takes and he takes and he takes.

(Sufjan Stevens)

headache.  eadhhace.  eahedha.

who are you?
are you who.

i am the only one who knows
(am i?)
i am the only one who
(am i?)
i am the only one

i am.

we were – were we?
we are – are we?
we will be – be will we?

such a palindrome.emordnilap a hcus

we were not
(because i can’t remember for certain)
we are not
(and so it is)
we will not be
(because the world keeps running,
dark waters and titanium moons)

a selfish standing secret
alone in remembering
keeping quiet,
rioting jangling mindless thoughts.

slip-sliding along, winter’s slight
illuminated in infinity
ghostly hands over ghostly lands
dreamsicle darkness
night trailing ailing fingers
florescent luminescence


walking. alone and not alone –
hands in my pockets,
holding tight to

and holding out
dark to light
love to fight

wanting to watch Orion dance,
that waltz you denied him.

he’ll show me how.



November 30, 2006

i bought a sketch book today.

the blue scarf i’m knitting refuses to finish itself.

i should probably start writing that paper…

a full 8 hours of sleep.  not too shabby.

i’m not even too upset about the eight or so pages of irp-ing i have to do tonight.  i mean, really, i can manage that – i’ve written 8 page papers in a night before.  this one’s just more…picky.

it’s supposed to get cold again tomorrow.  this is why i hate Wisconsin.  my house is always freezing, and my hands always hurt.  i’m considering having a pair of gloves permanently installed on my hands – sewn tightly about the wrists, so that i never fear frostbite again.

there’s a Parnassus meeting tonight and i really don’t have any writing prepared.  i have a concept for a piece working itself out in my head, but before i can really do anything with it i have to find a hard cover blank sketchbook.  this has to be done by hand.

i feel neglectful, like i’ve been letting what’s important drop behind what’s not.  i’m afraid to lose it.

well.  time for class, i guess.  just a few short hours.

on an unrelated note, if what just happened is what i think just happened, i’m going to be really surprised.

C’est vrai

November 29, 2006

“Il faut bien que je supporte deux ou trois chenilles si je veux connaître les papillons.”

last night

November 29, 2006

last night, the world became young

as the moon smiled and swayed in the sky –

shot out its beams like pure love song

and found your hand in mine.


and oh! such tender revelation,

the trees wept openly.

and across sky carpets, the constellations

were dancing three by three.


last night the world became young

as the dead streets turned back into rivers,

changing the buildings into towering mountains

and the warmth of your lips gave me shivers.


and we’ll dance aloud, these miracles,

into the calming days,

‘cause we’ve disavowed our fear of hurt

for as long as the music plays.


so dance with me, my love,

until clouds explode,

all secrets told

‘til every broken heart

is redeemed.