The moon is close enough to touch
but we’re mostly concerning ourselves with the wine table.
Your sister’s boyfriend is telling stories
about his missions trip to a country with a z in the name.
He nods and tucks his hair a lot,
and I’m struggling to think of a question that makes me sound interested.
I’m listening to an argument taking place near the tv
when someone offers me a small plastic cup.
“Here, drink this. It will make you feel like a security guard
who is constantly searching for a better parking spot.”
I have a kid now.
I’m not a parent that minds calling my kid a kid. Know what I mean? Like the mom’s who have decided to wage a constant war, educating people that a kid is a baby goat or whatever.
She’s 5 months old and laughs at her feet.
I have a different job now.
A direct contribution to my writing decline was going back to school for 2 years and taking a job in an industrial setting. (ie: a pulp mill). Now that that’s leveling out, I hope to make my return. I feel inexperienced and terrible about writing, but it’s fitting like an old sweater and I hope to wear it for a long time.
I eat quinoa & hummus now.
Not like, a lot, but more than zero.
I’m 30, as in not in my 20’s.
Submitted without comment.
Way too many of my words have red lines under them, and the hooks and phrases come far too slowly or not at all.
I’m exploring the world of writing again after being away so long.
It’s equal parts terrifying and exciting.
Everyone that used to follow my creativity here has long since moved on, me included.
But what better place than this empty basement to sharpen my knives, and try again?
If by a some colossal accident you’re reading this:
She used to turn the blinker on five minutes out,
and coast to the intersection
“I like to slowly become more relevant,
like corduroy, or a stopped clock.”
“Do you want to know something else about me?” She asked
and I almost laughed because,
despite the fact that she was a terrible driver,
I wanted to know everything about her.
We wrote swears on the ocean’s edge while the sun rose.
What hearts are these, that could love the beach’s
most vulnerable, toe-stubbing thoughts, printed on its yawning forehead?
And what hands are these? Laced around coffee mugs of wine,
our lips and teeth purple with the effort.
The dog only knows the truth of it, and only for an instant:
White washed legs and a tongue of sand.
Later, our bodies will ache with acquired wisdom.
The trees are the only ones keeping fit
on this windy, early March afternoon.
Bending, and reaching with black skeleton hands
to the passing drivers, hurrying by underneath.
I imagine how cold & hard the parking lot pavement is
I picture myself falling on it, my cheek hitting hard.
I wonder when I will next take a fall like that,
and exactly how much time I spend, thinking about falling.
The hard piles of snow lining the streets
have lost their charm at least two months ago.
And we’re all patiently waiting for their gracious exit
via mid-May’s warming rainstorms.
Until then we’re pushing through the grey
wearing red scarves and drinking red wine.
Being indoors with friends, laughing by the heater
and trying not to fall.
The last time I spoke,
a building collapsed somewhere behind me.
A hospital maybe,
or a book store.
Reading things with people again. In Fredericton this time:
My friend Mike Erb is in a photo contest, he wants to win.
There’s some voting going on, and if you want to vote you gotta give em your email, but you know, oh well?
Go here to do it to it:
Rain like a phone message;
pulsing, just out of view.
A female voice fills the house,
pours in and around the corners
filling the darkest parts
under the bed, behind the couch.
It’s not a voice I recognize,
not one I’ve spent time with.
I try and picture, in my mind
what this voice’s lips look like,
working together with tongue and teeth,
pushing words through my phone and under my bed.
“This is All Creatures Vet,” she is saying.
“Carl Winslow is due for his checkup.”
I look over at the cat who’s perched
on the back of the couch.
He stares back at me knowingly,
twitching an ear in faux-nonchalance.
We’re quiet for a while, me and Carl,
and the plastic phone, and the rain.