Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Different Cities

Once I came from a different city. It was more then when I was new. Now I am something like old. Older is more like it. More than the other. Not so much gray hair, gentle eyes. A knack for telling stories. I am not as young as before. That's it. We were never talking about me, though, were we? It was my relation to the city. Very different than just me. Very much a relationship.

I am inside this city. I go to its parks, its buildings, and its museums. I eat at its restaurants, shop at its stores, and I read books at its libraries. Those that know me know that's a lie. The last part. The books I borrow are given to me. When was the last time? A healthy exchange. Read the pages, but particularly the words on them. Communicate. You can read the pages, but really it's all about the words. Inside is luxurious.

There's really just something about the rows of homes. Your feet on the bathroom floor. Who made this place their home? Who said, one day, I come and go from here. I have my fights in here. I close the door in here. I make delicious food here. In this kitchen, I take a soul and fill it. I take a knife to my food and make tears fall from my eyes. I close my door to here.

We leave here and it's forever. We wake up and lost the day before. The day before that is long gone, too. Don't even get me started on last week. What the hell was that all about? My foot is in this city. I crunch leaves how you eat food. Swallowing the season, I am forgetful. What's it all about? Suddenly every day is a Monday. I will catch up never. Every city is different, yet they are all the same. The same for days. All the same.

Some cities have naked trees, others have leaves. Palm trees. I feel sand under my toes, like the crunch of leaves without the sound. Same memory. My skin is softer now. Unlike under the fall and winter. I am dry like the desert. Then and now, but not today. You touch my face and find it the same as before. No, you are wrong. It's still a different city.

Every age, I am here. If here is the present, then believe the last thing I said. Who couldn't? Be here. Be present. Be those things and don't believe me, that's fine too. You are likely older, wiser. Your hand is like my memory. Of long lines and withering. Waiting for the fall. Some might say you are the naked tree. Some might say you are of winter. Here, you are listening. Here, you are with me. Giving shade from the sun. With me. Here, and young.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Following Simplicity

A crowd. Staring over heights of high. A crowd. Instead I yearn for simplicity.

The brewer of a good batch. Instead bubbles, of bath. I yearn for a cup in my hand. I yearn for. Where is the good man.

The good flock. Birds and wall. The wall, a sky. Back to the ocean instead of the city. The storm. The city thunder.

Hearing it, below the staircase winding. I yearn for chores. Household tidy. Cleaning up, out, down, out, around. My face is clean. My shower is used. I put my foot inside the boot. It was empty. I feared a spider. Or two. I fear for it, and it's getting stomped by me.

I am a meal. Instead of a person, I ate the last. I am the grain, the fat, the protein, the. Boil me, like water. Fry me, like I did. The last time. The last. A person is like food. Warm it up, break it down.

Simple place is for sitting. We used to go in the corner. We used to stare at the wall. Flock of birds. Flock of four corners, a house, four walls. A corner meets in the middle. I am in the middle of. A flock of birds. Some call me the leader. I look behind and see nothing. They who followed went away.

It took time, instead of thought. It takes time, like mist falling down. A water-pour onto the highway, onto the bay. It moves slowly, instead of go, go go. Instead of simplicity, I yearn for hunger. Being full. I sat in this place. I sat me down. It took time, oh. A flock of birds. The flew. The last, and the last one, also following.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012


Pumpkins! That's all :)

Oh, wait. No, not true! I haven't spent nearly enough time in the kitchen this fall. I'm interested in getting back in the game, with a real zinger! Any suggestions? Please share with me your favorite fall dish. Happy Autumn!!!

Monday, October 1, 2012

More or Less

You are given a bunch of pink hydrangeas. Listen close now. A bunch is not a lot. A bunch is a bunch in flower terms. Speaking florally, this is a measurement. The clean content of language in a word. Hold the bunch. Like a bride, like a flower girl. Hold the bunch because you want to feel beautiful. You want to smell the beauty from your hand.

Different, say, than miles. Miles of errands we run on the daily. Hourly tasks, broken down into minutes. One minute I think of what I must do. The next minute I think of what I must do, must do. Listen close to miles of inside chatter. Inner child.


Start over. You are given a bunch of hydrangeas. They are for you, but considering thought, a thought considered, you might scatter them. Let the wind carry the petals, taking them away. You might scatter them into the wind. Suddenly, the city is drifting.

It yells out to you, come back to the city, city girl. Don't let the mountains raise you, don't let the tree hug you. Try not to live inside the trunk. You know, in the area they carved out for you? Try not to live inside that spot.

Outside you don't have to make bunches of things. It's already done for you. Landscapes arranged. Flowers together. Even the sky is painted. At night there are stars. During the day there is a jet-stream. Farther away, there are clouds. Farther from the city, there are only clouds.

Sit here, anyway. Sit here and write a poem, the poem you thought you saw. With words, and line breaks, and there is even a line that rhymes. Two minutes, or three. You think a thought. You think the next thought: I will try to think less, though. Think less about what I have to do. Think less, making lists. Think more, thinking more. Two minutes, or three. The table is square and the chair is holding me. I am sitting in this chair and it is holding me.