Slip the Hourglass

love it

Sat, 06 Apr 2013 09:25:27 -0400

love it

in the dream i'll never tell you

Sat, 05 Jan 2013 10:00:38 -0500

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

Sun, 25 Nov 2012 21:23:12 -0500

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

Fri, 21 Sep 2012 09:22:30 -0400

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

future hair maybe

Fri, 08 Jun 2012 13:52:22 -0400

future hair maybe

such a skinny song.

Thu, 07 Jun 2012 11:22:41 -0400

as a child

Wed, 16 May 2012 09:09:59 -0400

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.

LOVE WON'T SAVE US: There are no starfish in the sky tonight,But there is one below your...

Wed, 09 May 2012 09:03:39 -0400

LOVE WON'T SAVE US: There are no starfish in the sky tonight,But there is one below your...:

holy moly i just fell in love with frank stanford.

ahuntersheart:

There are no starfish in the sky tonight,
But there is one below your belly,
And there are cold evenings in your eyes.

If I could get to your house
I would look under the bed of your childhood,
The tongueless loafer without laces or eyes,
The cave of your young foot
With its odor of moon, its…

all night

Fri, 04 May 2012 08:58:05 -0400

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

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 09:09:22 -0400

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

misc.

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 09:01:35 -0400

My heart is filled with window seats.

I snuff the candles out with my fingertips.

A charming chimpanzee.

tiny airplane

Mon, 09 Apr 2012 09:19:58 -0400

I dreamt I had to rescue all my employees, so I had them jump on a little hand held airplane; to do so, they of course had to shrink. The wings of the plane were also where the people sat, their legs hanging in the air. I held onto the bottom of the plane, which was like a joystick, and directed the plane, which would lift me up as it flew. We were one machine. I couldn’t, however, find a way to launch out of the building we were trying to escape and we spent most of our time in elevators, wandering down hallways and sometimes the employees would give up and step off the plane and into their normal size, walking away. Or they’d fall off and die. Or get wounded. Finally, I gave up and set the plane down (or pulled it off my head? it seemed as though when i wasn’t trying to fly it, it sat on my head like a headband) and found only one employee left. The rest dead, or gone. And it was incredibly sad.

Then I dreamt I used that image in a poem, as a turn at the end. The line was something like: it wasn’t his arm, as skinny as a baby’s arm that was frightening, but that i dreamt I carried him on a tiny airplane, its lift determined by my positive attitude, its direction determined by my will.” Or some nonsense like that.

there’s a broken bell in here somewhere.

Tue, 03 Apr 2012 09:15:56 -0400

there’s a broken bell in here somewhere.

remember

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 09:46:54 -0400

there’s a ghost in the corn. not a child’s.

recurring figures in dreams

Thu, 29 Mar 2012 09:01:05 -0400

I woke up from this dream thinking this entire dream is symbol for my entire life:

I was in my childhood bedroom. It was night. I woke to sounds in the hall, knowing I had to help my little brother (he’s always five in these dreams) and also let the dog out to pee. We all trundle down the stairs and the back door is unlocked, which is always a bad omen. The basement door is open and I shut it before its dream-haunts could crawl up the stairs. I’m getting used to these mind-tricks. The dead-dog and the dead-cat run outside, as does my little brother. It’s rainy and the yard is wet, slick with no moon. A utility truck is parked on the gravel road, the men anticipate the power going out. I keep my own live-cat from escaping out into the dark. The animals and my brother come in, we lock the doors, I can feel these locks in my hands even now, and go up the stairs.

In my room, a beautiful woman. The usual mix of lust and guilt and desire and longing—far off as if through a series of curtains, I know I’m betrothed to another. Out the window the scenes change; we are in a foreign city. But still I worry if my door is shut tight, if my mother is spying from her bedroom.

cabinporn: The Minister’s Treehouse, Crossville,...

Sat, 17 Mar 2012 09:26:49 -0400

cabinporn:

The Minister’s Treehouse, Crossville, Tennessee. Horace Burgess began constructing his treehouse over twenty years ago and has been adding to it ever since. Six trees support the structure, the design for which was given to the minister by God.

I’ve heard way too many stories in the past year about God telling people how to build crazy buildings. What are you God, some kind of Architect? A Creator if you will? Seems like there’s a poem or two somewhere in all this.

this tired castle.

Tue, 06 Mar 2012 08:38:39 -0500

this tired castle.

Pasture for Prairie

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 10:01:51 -0500

It’s 9 o’clock and that ding dong in your chest rings its little bell and says, let’s not be ordinary, we should be dancing, the usual request from the sad side-stepper who always gets side-stepped. Ding dong, where are the windows? Why is loyalty valued when it ties you to the ordinary so often? The heart-shaped pocket in your chest, its voluminous rooms, its split seams. It’s hard not to feel nostalgic for the horse you once were the flying gallop of your mane. When it wasn’t a question. How many old mares lazing around the pasture dream of their prairie days? Where did she go, they ask themselves, ask their great horsey hearts. The gonging longing of the tipped clock in their throats—oh they didn’t ask a lot but they asked. Give my skin to their hooves let them echo in my chest. I’m a longing. I’m gonging. Or is that just the windowless room humming again trying to steal the depth from my breath?

reminder

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 09:14:09 -0500

I slept under the piano while my mother gave lessons until all my dreams turned into piano keys.

even though

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 09:01:16 -0500

the days are stretching out and the light enters me like a hurricane enters a lamp, still there is this dark part always in a shadow. i know the shadow is made of a kind of neglect, a kind of web that if i just started waving my hands would disperse. there’s no reason to tear up when you get a ridiculous email from a ridiculous co-worker. but there’s no reasoning with that dark part that thinks all paths should be dirt, all life spent in deep, complete engagement. that’s not it, heart, if that’s what you are. there’s only glory in part, never in full. much of life is callusing. the artists, the poets, the yoga instructors would tell you to avoid such callusing, would suggest the turtle is happiest with his neck stretched to the pine smell leaking from the trees. i don’t know. i’d say he’s thankful for that shell. i’d say it’s more useful to learn to shut up that part that goes no no no good god no i don’t want to do this again i don’t care and remind that stupid part, hey do you like eating? do you like paying bills? do you like roofs and shoes and clothing? shut up little part. you’ve had your way a long time. it’s time to put your shoulder to the wheel and learn better that sad but useful mantra—who cares, who cares, who cares.