Slip the Hourglass

in the dream i’ll never tell you

we blew foamy bubbles out of steaming hot springs floating up out of rivers and creeks like islands of water inside of water. we could catch the steam on our hands and the bubbles had weight and if you blew gently they multiplied into more bubbles, lighter and lighter

and then i asked someone for milk with cinnamon and clove sprinkled in it; this person said this would taste horrible, and though i disagreed, i knew it was the exact shade and flavor of your skin and that i would pour it over your stomach and lick you clean. 

oh that wicked gleeful smile of yours seems the same in dream as life. 

you are such a dangerous knife. 

reminders

• Good idea / bad idea: editing one’s diaries from one’s twenties into some sort of publishable diary thing? 
• caravan of light
• film reels in the heart

trying

though the flute

of my life continues its sharp wind,

though the corset

of my lungs hasn’t collapsed,

though the mushroom cap

of my foot’s arch fills

with aching lonely

though the tightrope

in my neck tightens

though the umbrella

of my hair leaks rain

though the spiderweb

snatching my dreams

snaps though the weight

isn’t much, less than a thimble

thick as a fly though

we aren’t pyramids yet

such a skinny song.

as a child

I remember this creeping, sickening fear of becoming a grown-up: what do they do with all that time? At these “jobs” they have? They don’t play? They don’t get to go to school? And this sense of doom and disaster and boredom swept down across me like a kind of seasickness.

It was a terrible feeling. And it’s terrible, being a grown-up, seeing all those fears confirmed so regularly; it’s true, it’s true, child. 80% of life is boredom and trying to figure out how to deal with various discomforts so you can make it to the 20% of joy. If you’re lucky, those percentages can slip and slide and sometimes you’ll feel like life is only 20% absurd and stupid. But don’t count on it.

all night

i heard islands of birds roost and coast through the night’s thin ocean, thin as unsleeping, their chatter the ruffle of light on waves, the collapse of a thin girl in an old book to a faint, they chattered like children about worlds we cannot know just as the unborn whisper about us, these sorry sacks full of ghosts.

for better or worse

the morning will open its bright yawp and swallow us tomorrow.