Friday, December 14, 2012

I was busy on Facebook, a fly stuck to sticky, and a thousand likes piled up around me. I threw some out, no regrets, and pressed an x and removed the whole stuck sticky. Maya tipped the scale, and anger fought with attachment, my heart beat to the blows. I drove around and through my town, ate two slices of cheese pizza dripping in the box and wiped my mouth on napkins. I bought a pair of huge shoes to fit Sophie's new orthotics, answered last minute questions that the Friend Who Loves Jane Austen asked me about Sophie's medication, argued about Kubrick and Tarantino and art as weapon. Poetry is a Destructive Force, said the poet Wallace Stevens, the insurance salesman who knew. A useless day, I thought, no use for it. And I wanted to peel off my skin and walk, exposed, to better feel.


  1. If there is one damn thing I know, it is that I have lived a life where musicians have come and played at my kitchen table. That is something. That may be the whole happy enchilada.
    Or the half-inch of water.

  2. It sounds to me like you're feeling plenty.

  3. There are and, if we are fortunate (for the other choice is not appealing), will continue to be moments when what we have is to linger wretchedly among substantial things. Any of us ruled by air find it pretty dense out here a lot of the time. xo (John Prine just kicks ass, in the best possible sense.)



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