Archive for November, 2009

one cup, edge cracked.

I know a place where the green ivy grows longer,

no news of the affairs of men

only the occasional sound of fisherman’s whistle.

What is this room?

The sun shines and I boil my tea;

When the moon comes I read stories.

I have no news to report.

Other than to know that eventually I’ll stop chasing.

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This weekend I spent with Mad Dog margaritas, poems about siblings, Everclear, Zombies, a fishing trip, family in town from far, families coming together, and a forced order of mozzarella sticks.

I got inspired at work today, which seems to happen often, and how often can you say that?

Now, Ellen has been in the kitchen braising lamb and cookin’ up some sweet potato biscuits. I’ve got a soon-to-be-full belly and a pocket full of love.

The good times are ones when there’s nowhere else to be but now.

The grass under my toes is as green as it gets.

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la vie, elle est le souffle, n’est pas? les cycles lents qui vont dedans et dehors: en respirant, le jour devient la nuit, l’été devient l’hiver, nos vies deviennent les vies des autres, l’amour, la mort. on dit bonjour. on dit au revoir. on dit bonjour à nouveau.

la nature, elle est silencieuse, non? une branche cassée, une tent, une feuille, un canoe perdu, toujours les voix de l’oiseau, aussi perdues dans le vent. il faut l’écouter. toujours à nouveau. toujours à nouveau.

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I woke up incredibly angry this morning. What was I angry at? Myself. Why? Because last night, I had a vampire dream. I’m not going to tell you about the dream, just that they involved Twilight, and the mere embarrassment of that fact made me utterly angry.

… at myself.


I remember that for the very first six months of my senior thesis, the entirety of the oeuvre was, “…just sittin’ here watchin’ the curser blink.”


I remember the first time I heard about an “asian fusion” restaurant, I couldn’t help but think about siamese twins.

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i’ll sleep on the couch.

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Past your house.

The morning light seeps in through now, with the time change,

and I get confused when I wake up.

I count them, twelve steps to the bathroom, fourteen more to the tea kettle.

I lose track on the way to the balcony. Good morning sun.

Seen so many places, vast empty spaces, that I adapt to the crickets in the morning.

My own feet on the ground, shifting weight, and I wonder if the air will ever smell like winter here.

Those first chills always came early, summer days moving by fast, and people’d say, “fall’s comin’ on quick this year.”

At night, I play this game; I walk past your house on the way home from work. You’ve been gone but I think of you.

What’s the game? I hum your melodies backwards.

I thought you’d like it.

Because no one brings the guitar now, and no one the bottle of wine to share.

But the kettle rings, the tea steeps, thirteen steps to the dresser drawer, and from there, always far many more than a day should have.

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