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Archive for the ‘writings’ Category

A Poem, of Sorts

a poem, of sorts, that was in my head this morning:

I try to be clever
but I exhale crumpled moth wings

A brain can ache
like a stomach can ache –
it’s when you can’t escape your own self

The other night I went to fold the laundry
and I didn’t want to do it
and I didn’t want to not do it –
how can this be?

my biggest fear is not death,
but being sent into outer space
alone
to a place where I discover bodies do not die.

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random bits

Do you ever have random memories pop into your head?  she asked.

His smile was a response, she knows he does not.  Her question was not a real inquiry anyway but, rather, a polite intro to her own reverie.

“I was remembering a very hot August Sunday afternoon.  I was about 9, out on the small porch on my grandparents’ apartment in Revere, Massachusetts.  

The small portable radio is at my side and I am laying on a thin bath towel. on top of the splintery wood floor. When I look up the sky is fragmented into uneven bits by a criscross of  wires that look like they have been there as long as the sky, but that couldn’t be.

‘Love is higher than a mountain, love is thicker than water . . . heaven’s angel, devil’s daughter.’  (Two separate women?  two sides of the same woman?)  Do I never hear that song anymore because it is so awful, or because i have fabricated it?

I feel like the big girls, my cousins who sun themselves by their outdoor pool, who Drink Soda and Talk About Boys.  I like to pretend I am becoming indoctrinated and try to ignore niggling questions like “How do they lie there uncomplaining and baking for hours at a time like glossy game hens?”  and  “Does anyone actually find this fun or is this the modern day Emperor’s New Clothes?”

I am bored but I don’t have the energy to get up for a long time.  The sun erased my will.  Eventually I do go inside, away from the too-intense sunshine and too-friendly hornets.

My mother begins, ‘Don’t let the screen door…’

whump.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I understand why the older ladies start wearing shawls.  Once you are marginalized, no-one gives you their heat.  No-one wants to touch you any longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He loved her for her quirks.  The way her sounds of pleasure were small questions (“Oh?  Oh?”).  But mostly, for the things she was not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She looked at the flags and wreaths adorning the gravestones with a grimace – the popularity contest doesn’t even end with death!

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Manbun Haiku

Talking to tweens – it can be a struggle.

Me: Sometimes planes look like air sharks up there, don’t they?

Her: Yeah.

Me: I wrote a haiku today!  It’s about manbuns!

Her: Yeah?

Me:  Wanna hear it?

<Silence, interpreted as permission to recite>

Me:

Your manbun looks like

tumbleweeds in the March winds.

It sure does suit you!

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Jealous Of

Spent far too long in this life of mine

 

ruing things I wasn’t born to be

 

As I grow old, I grow more jealous, too –

 

I’m even jealous of your jealousy

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She’s behind me in line, well, more like next to me, and there’s a relentless tapping of something on the large package in her arms. I take a sideways look and see a bracelet in striking shades of blue; what looks like tiny blue ceramic teeth interrupted by gold beads.

“Wow,” I say, pointing to her wrist. “That’s a fantastic piece. I wonder how they got those to look so much like teeth.”

“They are teeth,” she says. “They’re my son’s teeth.”

“Really? How old is your son now?” I ask.

“He’d a been fourteen this spring,” she says flatly.

“Ahh,” I say. Long silence.

“Next!” demands the postal worker at the second counter. I walk up and my mind goes blank. I cannot remember what I walked here for. I look at signs above my head, hoping they may shake my memory.

“Book of stamps?” I squeak.

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