Summer legs, summer heart. And not sleeping that much. So far, so great. The big lesson of the season thus far: always be ready to enjoy yourself.

Coming soon: finishing the One Track Mind column, call for sex ed book submissions, puppet festival brainstorm, two shows o’ poetry in August, holding down the 412 fort for those traveling far, and a long overdue trip home.

Oh, and something great just happened. Two nights ago, I mentioned a college roommate comrade, a fierce lady definitely missed(it’s been years..maybe 5, 6?). This morning, I decided, on a very irrelevent whim, to check the inbox of an old email address(one that I do not use anymore, and haven’t for some time). Sent late June: an email from said comrade(“What’s up poetess?”). How sweet and unexpected. I’m thrilled to reconnect.

Last night I started writing about getting baptized. Age: 17 years old. I’ve talked about it, but this is the first go at putting words down, and it’s kind of amazing. It’s funny to remember my thoughts, the act, the disconnect. Getting in my car with wet hair, sitting in the parking for a long time. A church near Rte 73, and some cornfields.

Maybe I wanted to experience something so ritual, something believed in beyond me(the subject, gowned and submerged does not give a bow, however, receives applause at a suspicious volume)—maybe I needed the concept of unconditional love in the form of participation. That some…thing out of scope pulled me there telling me this is where you need to be. But the some…thing never tugged on me. Just a kid trying. I had to try everything.

Entered the room in a bending puff of white. A gown so thin I wondered what could be seen from far away, or did my shape beneath remain a pause of darkness, heart of a sheep beating? I wondered that, lifting the hem with my knees to step into the altar. The congregation watched me sift myself into the water. Cold. The dress swirled away from me, bubbles of material refusing the plane I waded through.

I find it funny now—that I went alone. I did not mention the baptism to my father, my sister. I kept it to myself(I know now because I wasn’t sure). How could I tell them: I do not understand love, and so I came here?

I heard words and watched the stillness of lined legs. I pulled my eyes over the tops of heads, felt a hand fall onto my own. The trick is to let your knees give out while they push down. Do not resist. I resisted, not ready, and the hand gave a private little force. Pressure. My legs surrendered and I went under.

I did not understand the water, the ritual, the reason. I did not care for the surfacing.  I accepted a towel, returned to my sad pile of clothes, thinking:  nobody should be this wet mid-November.

Something, certainly simplified. Tait and I walked down to the river this evening. Frequently I forget about living so close to a body of water. Today we honored our placement with good conversation on a bench overlooking the sun on the surface, a rowing team. After that we properly geeked out over literature, and now I have a new book on loan to read: The Street of Crocodiles, by Bruno Schulz. I’m waist deep into the introduction. It seems that I am always reading two or three books at once, but my brain prefers to handle the intake of words this way.

I took the long way home, up the hill, talked to my sister. We ended the conversation in an overlap of giggling, which is the usual. My niece likes to stand on her head in the crib, and she’s fascinated by the gravel. No worries, I will be there soon.

Something, simplified. Certainly. Almonds. If not eating them, then stacking them. Holding the body in a pinch against the window, morning light. Counting the lines like trees unwound. Breaking the shape to get the flesh, a polar bear in wood.

rest in peace, shannon leigh

a brilliant woman. a brilliant poet.
September 15, 1987 - June 30, 2008

The bus, trundling. Screech chord composed to slowdown traffic and the open gnaw of pothole. This place growing vines around my wires. Eyes wider than I remember them, out the window with music budding up in my arms—the parts I forget about(the undersides, the orbit ‘round elbow, pores). Part of my brain knows I’m going to work, but not really—work can have my hours, my body, my 98 wpm and inside-voice but the rest I will hold close to myself and pretend I am traveling somewhere/anywhere. A place with buildings made of sound, foundations of foot tapping, doorways of some cinema.

And honey hark your panda might, swinging sword of piano hammers giddy—this world-watching, wondering what next of another morning. “Keep your hand, you probably need it..” Right when I get too tired and confusion seems to gasp the gears, something simple happens. The tough guy drinking coffee on a stoop in the Strip—he flings his thermos cup clean in such a certain-graced flair, a movement of poet//the morning light has him in the motion timeless. He gets up just to walk away. The woman on the bus leaning soft mouth into a hand reversed and we make eye contact, and we keep it and we smile. The little boy in the back has the entire section in stitches over his rendition of the handheld bus schedule, front to back. There are lions at this stop you see, and a sideways sandwich for the bridge. Oh really, they say, oh really. Yes really, the boy says back, a matter-of-fact, and the adults start rolling again.

I start the blocks of walking on ankles that feel they are breaking and say to myself: alright, little tough, lose the game face. The shield holds little shelter for you, actually. The plaster of your neutral existence, long-since crumbling. Dust the stuff away. Be the valleys and swings. Enjoy the pauses of getting there, of going. Yes sometimes the roaming is more about drifting. Yes the hands are a place to hold things. Only what you can carry, take with.

Like this darling, like this. Travel light.

Former Iraqi detainees sue U.S. military contractors
By Daren Butler

ISTANBUL (Reuters) - Four Iraqi men are suing U.S. military contractors who they say tortured them while they were detained in Abu Ghraib prison, according to lawsuits being filed at U.S. federal courts on Monday.

The lawsuits allege the contractors committed violations of U.S. law, including torture, war crimes and civil conspiracy.

The scandal over the treatment of detainees at Abu Ghraib unleashed a wave of global condemnation against the United States when images of abused prisoners surfaced in 2004.

The four plaintiffs, all later released without charge, described their experiences to Reuters on Monday at an Istanbul hotel, where they periodically meet their U.S. legal team. They gave accounts of beatings, electric shocks and mock executions.

Farmer Suhail Naim Abdullah Al-Shimari, 49, said he was caged, beaten, threatened with dogs and given electric shocks during more than four years in detention. He was released in March without being charged and without any judicial process.

“I lost my house, my family were made homeless and left without a breadwinner. I lost four-and-a-half years of my life and all they did was say sorry,” he told Reuters.

Some lower-ranking soldiers have been convicted in military courts in connection with the physical abuse and sexual humiliation of Abu Ghraib detainees.

The latest lawsuits follow a similar one launched in early May in federal court in Los Angeles by another former Abu Ghraib detainee, Emad Al-Janabi. The latest plaintiffs sought unspecified compensatory and punitive damages.

“This litigation will contribute to the true history of Abu Ghraib. These innocent men were senselessly tortured by U.S. companies that profited from their misery,” said Susan L. Burke, one of the attorneys representing the detainees.

The lawsuits were being filed where the contractors reside. They named CACI International Inc, CACI Premier Technology, L-3 Services Inc and three individual contractors.

The first suit was filed on Monday in Seattle, Washington, and the others were being filed in Maryland, Ohio and Michigan.

CACI provided interrogators at Abu Ghraib and L-3 provided translators at the prison.

Sa’adoon Ali Hameed Al-Ogaidi, a 36-year-old shopkeeper and father of four, described being caged, abused and paraded naked as one of the unregistered “ghost” detainees, hidden for a time from the International Committee of the Red Cross.

“In our Arab culture being stripped naked is one of the worst rights violations. It made me feel ashamed and it has left a deep scar in me,” he told Reuters.

“What I want is for the perpetrators to be brought to justice and punished for what they have done,” he said.

According to the complaints, the contractors participated in physical and mental abuse of the detainees, destroyed documents, prevented the reporting of torture and misled officials about the state of affairs at the prisons in Iraq.

Storm, Saturday.

First time in 44 years. Spain wins the Euro.

The play that sealed the win. One forward, one goalie. One extra push to outrun the last defender. One foot out to pop the ball at just the right moment. Goal.

Take that big house. The one that did not belong to us, yet we were flicking cigarettes into the rocks under the deck, stomping our feet to a live version of Morrison’s Moondance like we owned the place, the street, the planet. Oh and then E. disappeared to sit in his car with the door open, guitar in hands, singing out something that had just come to mind. He seemed to be gone forever. We were turning off Curtis, pouring more rounds when E. finally came back into the kitchen, tears in his eyes. Happily creating enough to cry.

The leather couch I had trouble sleeping on, the ghost of the big screen tv seeming to keep to its shout in the dark. Trying to drift, listening to my roommate obnoxiously screwing my good friend in the next room. They were better friends(or so obviously it seemed). In the morning there were omelets for everyone, records and bare feet.

19 felt so stupid and perfect. I had reason to run, and if said reason couldn’t be found well then I just made up one. Headed north with a thief, drew myself into a world hyphened by backgrounds. Going through what I never imagined, things still stuck to the ribs. Sliding notebooks through condensation rings at the bar, scribbling conversations. I spent a lot of time being the designated driver, drinking Cokes and playing the juke box. There was a night at the Century Bar when I played Ring of Fire and everyone in the place sang or mouthed along. The bar had a backing of dark wood, carved sirens, a large mirror. This is how I watched the vets sing along with Cash, clap each other on the back as they extracted proof from wallets and waved them at us. I remember briefly thinking: oh god I’ll never know anything. We had cold to contend with. When a glass hit the floor it was time to go home. I kept the napkins filled with poems never finished.

I could write that home into fire. I learned everything from this. The day I waited patient on a porch swing rehearsing matter-of-fact words(“stop drinking or you will die//stop drinking or you will die”). Here comes a cabbie bobbing along the tops of the hedge, and the conversation happened—not a sound, not a nod. Afternoons soaked in whiskey all around me. Matt with the postal worker pants, the sweat that never left the front of his hair, the way we walked into the grocery store with a snorkel, towels wrapped like turbans on wet heads, pruned hands. Bought a sandwich and shared it on the hill overlooking Wayne. Fell asleep waiting again. One then two then three. A black eye walks through the door(hidden key in the plant pot hanging, found). The new bruise could not be placed. We had 5am fruit, sucked our knuckles clean of red and grime. I had to get up and scrape paint off houses. Lead paint, flecks that took two baths to properly get rid of. There were phone calls false, and back rooms without doors. Then move. Then Vodka Collins and mixed tapes, being broke. The best sort of fools, the bad sort of way.