these days are for becoming

these days, i like to laugh with women on the radio.
these days, my biggest fear is running over a cat in the back lot.
these days, i say much less.
these days, my fantasies are of records & lipsticks & slender-legged desks.
these days, every thought is comparative.
these days, my nails have paint on them.
these days, i make concerted and awkward efforts.
these days, i cook with mushrooms.
these days, love is familiar.
these days, there are many tiny comforts i like to keep close.
these days, i (mostly) understand.

these days are for nothing other than becoming. slowly but surely. barely but always. these days are for becoming.

new super 8x washer

a vinegar hallway. my drunk neighbor making noise. reading two, three bulletin boards for a way out. a light-colored cat trots outside while i watch in my coat, from the inside. dads taking care of their daughters. green onions taller than ever. dreaming of babies’ rashes and how i might i love them someday. orange sugar water. i touch everything twice in case it’s electric.
(that cat is back!)

an ode to old young things

i love how you look at each other. i love your friendship. i love the way you see how he sits and you do the same. i love the way you hit each other. i love the way you’ll listen to him instead of her. i love the way you swear. i love the way you walk and talk, like you know everything and everyone there is to know. i love that when you go home at night and sit in your room with your mom a room away, you are so aware that you don’t know everything and everyone there is to know. i love how you will be a hero. i love that you take your shirt off. i love that you have imperfect skin. i love that you slouch low in your seat. i love that you broke me down. i love that you form clubs out of friends and admissions out of memories. i love that you share glances. i love that you get up without saying anything. i love that you eat so much. i love that you care about nothing. about everything. i love that you’ve unwittingly curated a language for members only. i love that you yell. i love your easy success. i love your lithe athleticism. i love that you were next to me once by the tennis courts. i love the way you point. i love the way you hold your glass. i love your tales. i love your youth. i love the way you bounce back. i love knowing that you’re still there. 

days of your.

my good days aren’t going to look like anybody else’s good days. and if i want to keep having good days, i really have to understand that.

rooftops: cold, frozen, and otherwise

when i fall in love, i fall hard. and on repeat.
“and no le reas zhe goggly blu jah go.”

i had a dream we could taste songs

found lip gloss from a different decade. honey kiss. to my tongue it has the taste of an anonymous coffee drink, butterscotch, and cheap cosmetics. hmmm. a bit of a high school chaser, too. feeling quite comforted  by the discovery and application of this lost-and-found friend. tracking our reunion with these:

my dad used to cite REO Speedwagon’s “You Can Tune  a Piano but You Can’t Tuna Fish” quite a bit when i was young. i’m not sure he ever offered up any commentary on the album  itself, but we sure got a laugh from its title. and i did have a dream that we could taste songs. i bought “i am trying to break your heart” from a vending machine and it tasted like some sort of flavored cream soda. delicious.

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minimum page

used bookstores make dull-sky days even better. after searching through a sorry collection of old records and scouring the children’s section for something familiar and beloved, i came away with none of those and all of these. three lovely things and one ultra-conservative production of homophobic propaganda penned by “a heterosexual, Bible-believing evangelical.” essentially, i payed fifty cents to be outraged. ah well. a little ideological opposition does the mind good. that’s what i’ve always said

jane eyre : it seems strange that i’ve not yet read this.
the gay invasion : heavens. i couldn’t leave this on the shelf, alone and unscrutinized. it had to be read and undermined!
ira sleeps over : i read this in-store and was immediately enamored with its  humble sophistication. sometimes children’s books are the most romantic, i think.
the book of presidents : knowledge is power, they say.

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so full, they tipped me over: or, what happened when nothing fell out

oh, darling girl: you’ll never be enough.

you will never be pretty enough. your skin will never be smooth and innocent enough. your hands will never be soft nor your fingers lean enough. your eyes won’t spark and fire under lashes thick enough. your voice, especially next to hers, won’t sing enough. it will never be dainty (like a hair bow or pearl earrings) enough. and when you really need it to be, your voice simply won’t be big enough. your legs aren’t thin enough. run your hand down your stomach and it won’t feel flat enough. roll around in sheets not clean enough and set your scarred feet on a floor not warm enough. twirl your own hair enough and you’ll see that it’s not long enough. you don’t work enough or write enough. did you think your cup of sugar would be sweet enough? oh, dear, don’t be dumb enough. your stacks aren’t tall enough and your piles aren’t small enough. make him say, that’s enough. the room will never be dark enough for a face not bright enough. remember that your face will never be bright enough.

oh pretty girl, you didn’t learn enough or try enough. you haven’t walked enough or hurt enough. you think you’ve had enough, but if you aren’t even, how could it be? oh beautiful girl, you will never hear or hold or love or lose enough to know what you could have been. the only way to know would have been to be enough. and darling girl, you will never be enough.

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mister remember me

do moments wear hats and raincoats and walk with canes to stand within themselves?

oil lamp love poems

i’ll marry someone who makes you wish you were better. he’ll be erudite and affectionate and he’ll never leave without coming back. he’ll have the most wonderful face and and i’ll hold it in my hands when we kiss. and he’ll write stories but never about me. “to have you on paper is too far away,” he’ll say. and there will be nothing left for me to want other than, of course, perhaps a glass of water before i fall asleep.

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