Sitting on my porch, writing. A boy and a girl are coming down the street just below–probably in late teens, early twenties. They are disputing how expensive it is to text message on the phone.

 Girl: But I can’t LIVE without my text messaging!  

Another day, another realizing: getting old.

And you know what? I’m enjoying it.

One of my favorite instrumentals. 

Thanks to the long lost J. Eyre(the magician who made chicken noodle soup into lo mein like presto) for the introduction to this track via mixed tape, 8 years ago. This one does not forget.

I did not remember when waking, it did not start my day.

Seven years ago I had a miscarriage on this date. It is something that happened. It is a long, long time ago.

In piano and soot, coffee fit and

Anti-serotonin Sundays;

Bravery on a budget melody

Focus not on this, but smoke and stitch—

Heart on a spit made of correction tape;

Promise to not rot the pens;

And as the limbs subtle made for movement

As the wind breaking up the start of an old conversation

As the palm cross of the ring finger root

I will always write.

Let the words last be written if instrument in clutch at minute

A verb should be courage(The doorways and cities, the necks

I have breathed against)

Get it down before

It can get away

Envy cello of the body in bed next to me

Drag scrawl over the sweetheart’s hip

Molt on pulp, more ink for dinner

Without or with, the radio of sleep

Get up to the twitch and tip keep tipping

Just like a sway

Barely a bend, leaning to the T stems,

The strands of porch still in the brain, the way

Couples kind of press together

With no choice but to sit apart;

They call them little shocks

Pleasures of the wrist

Think and so

It will be, is—