how this morning feels–

seventeen (1)

Sitting in the floor, I had the harmonica on—holder around the neck completely comfortable with blowing the off kilter notes out into the open of a Dali plastered bedroom. On and on while my best friend strummed guitar. He was finally gaining weight again and not trying to convince me to kiss him. Things were not perfect, but they were okay.

Driving south on I-75 at 90 miles per hour, radio off and gritting my teeth. I thought my hands might rip the wheel out of the console. All I had was a phone call, and some anonymous girl crying to me that he would not get down from the car. I had no reference for the scene so I just ducked out of the room, told the brand new comrade “some other time.” On the run, to the rescue. Trying not to think the worst.

I pulled into the driveway of his parents’ house and my best friend was laying on the roof of his car, wildly swinging a bottle of vodka around and giggling. A not quiet situation. The anonymous girl stood by, trying not to laugh. I stepped out of my car. This isn’t funny, I told her. Go home. You aren’t helping. She left and I stood at the side of the car, saying over and over again: come down now. Just come down from there. The state of him pleased my request—a misjudged lean and he slid to a fwump onto the ground, still laughing. I tried to pick him up.

We are in his garage and he shows me a box. An AA book, baby blue and dusted up. A belt buckle that said Bud. A framed picture of a very young family. This is all I have of him, he said. I reached out to touch the buckle, to thumb through the book. The wind snaps past my extended digits as the box is cupped in brother palm and thrown across the garage, against the wall, into the holes of dry wall from knuckle punches between band practices. The objects scatter and the quiet is stupid.

And then, and then and then. Running around with a dictophone, demanding the grocers give their full names into the mic. The whispers of hours into wires—we’ve had tornados and bomb threats coupled with when are you coming home? Once more now, with feeling. We used headlights for sun during summer basketball games, a team of polo shirts just off work—nobody cared about paying rent yet. This is called young. And you can’t have it again. And I never thought that would be it—that years would push themselves between, that no knots held rope taut enough to keep it close. You get the faded things—the pleading in front yards and the soft blue of sweaters in open bathroom windows, the notebooks in libraries; some messes. The glories. All of it pushed together/blended, like watercolors wet again.

Man, it’s been a while since I’ve cried. My last good session happened in April, while visiting home and feeling all that pressure for not yet being a parent/married/”settled.” I do believe that is the last time I’ve let go of some much needed crocodile tears. 

I’m sitting here at work, tearing up at my desk, which is always uncomfortable for obvious reasons. Not crying, just getting choked up. The lump. It’s a pile up, not just one thing. First the news story about an HIV+ man getting sentenced 35 years for spitting on a cop(are people STILL this uneducated about the subject? Seemingly so)…the idea of this just breaks my heart. This plus the weather—warm/cool with lots and lots of rain. I need a little sunshine, for sure. News plus the weather plus my ipod—the shuffle function seems to be currently stuck on melancholy, no matter how many songs I skip through. It’s all adding up to the fact that I need to release some shit. But now, at work, is not the time. Maybe post-five I will steal a moment to face plant into the pillow at home and just let it out. 

 And this bio writing, still struggling. I think I need to clarify the anticipated length, and I KNOW that relaxing about the entire task would help me tremendous. I’m never sure what to say about myself, besides the abstract and backwards. It all seems to matter, the details, the past collaborations and events and adventures. All of it adds up to a little bit of now. As does my mother’s absence and my father’s presence and the fact that I’ve been writing since I learned how to make a fist around the crayon. I started scribbling notes—I’m sure I will pull through it just fine. But oh the getting there

 Tonight I’m going to see Christina Springer do a poetry feature, gonna hop on the open mic and bring some flyers and push the show. I’ve been invited to read for some 8^th graders on the Friday after the book release and since I have the day off, I’ve graciously accepted. I’m going to go nose to the grindstone for the next few weeks to prepare—I’m really excited. I love any opportunity to interact with the younger folk, especially on the grounds of writing/poetry/creativity. I’m trying to remember what it was like—being in 8^th grade. I kind of remember. Kind of is the best I can do currently. We had the skating rink, the impending switch to the high school, the soccer games(the year I had a hairline fracture in my foot and had to wear a funny little boot for 4 weeks, plus crutches that ached my armpits and turned me to a crawl in the hallway between classes).  So see I remember some things. But what fears did I have? Not sure. Still painfully shy, still wrestling my hair, trying to lion tame it into something “normal.” I remember some urgency, the loneliness. The too-old-for-me boyfriend who wedged tobacco between teeth and lip and drove a Beretta. Oh sheesh now I’m remembering.

 I am falling head over heels for poet Billy Collins.  Here are three poems…

Litany
by Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine… -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general’s head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman’s tea cup.
But don’t worry, I’m not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and–somehow–the wine.

****

 I Go Back to the House for a Book

I turn around on the gravel and go back to the house for a book, something to read at the doctor’s office, and while I am inside, running the finger of inquisition along a shelf, another me that did not bother to go back to the house for a book heads out on his own, rolls down the driveway, and swings left toward town, a ghost in his ghost car, another knot in the string of time, a good three minutes ahead of me — a spacing that will now continue for the rest of my life.

****

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Gorilla Sweat

6 oz. Water
2 oz. Tequila
1 tsp. Butter

Heat gently and pour into an Irish Coffee mug(butter will melt). Garnish with a cinnamon stick.

While bartending last night, I stumbled upon this drink recipe. The concept of butter in my drink just astounds me a little bit.

Oh dear…the feat of writing a bio for myself…I’ve never been very traditional about listing accomplishments and the like. For my chapbooks, I like to include a page that goes, “For more about me, please listen to the following songs,” followed by a list of songs near and dear to me–to offer some possible sense, some light. Too many days, too many events, too many microphones to remember them all. I do have an artist resume, but it’s a little out of date.

But I really, reeeealllly hope to get on Prosody, and I need to write a bio straightaway to send with my book. I’m brainstorming here.

Can you offer any tips/suggestions for writing a bio that you would like to share?

Anything…even a kick-tookus quote that may help to inspire me along the way; it’s appreciated.

The rain, the rain, the rain. The reason I will retire to bed early tonight. I have read some poetry, had dinner, caught my favorite parts of Mr. Holland’s Opus. I called my dad and wished him Happy Mother’s Day. I had the most fantastic days today, yesterday. Yeah. And so I say, all is well.

A very good friend asked me to write something for them; another good friend has offered to write a review of my book(both of which I am so flattered/humbled by). I sent one off to the New Yinzer for anthology consideration, and tomorrow I send another book to Jan Beatty for a potential spot on Prosody.

It is my music, it is the blood in my veins. I write every day. I spin around some sentences. Utter bliss = a swan dive into creating and creation. There is no outlet so electric, no fire so constant, kept brilliant. Do what you love. There’s no reason not to.

My porch faces the line of houses across the street. It goes house–space–house. I am in front of a nice trailer, built on its own little plot with a fenced in yard and address post. Owned by the residents on the left. The short stature creates a perfect rectangle of open sky for my viewing pleasure. Today we have blue sky and cumulus clouds. This, the sunshine, things in general–I’m sitting surrounded by bliss. So in honor of the simplicity on a Saturday, I wrote this:

Beyond a matter of having and
Not so much time, no not that stutterfly vagabond,
That sleep walking doomhoney;
More than just the missing
Perhaps the outro bleeding into the next number
A live music dialogue of clinked glass and sky of wires

This I call the bit of sun mapped out on a porch,
The cook’s jean patch of duct tape
Replacing side stitch and peeling;
My blue door of tan house
My open windows drive by driver
Radio on sings along with feeling;
The buildings I have not been in
The birds above ignoring us

I own the pockets in forgetful for you
With this adore your presence
Nod to it like I know
Whatever knowing means—
Listen can I be around you better
What do I owe for this alive, not life—
Little things you have been so good to me
So more than I can handle, so tragically sweet
How I would not exchange you for anything