Juggling and cooking.
I’ve been remembering and forgetting all day. Today would have been my father’s 62nd birthday. There aren’t words for that. There’s just the rain and a memory of how he would have us sit on the roof and watch lightning storms in the distance.
I’m reading aloud tonight. For some reason that appears to mean I have nothing to say here.
Skin lurid and out of sequence, seldom do these intervals lift the dawn close enough that I don’t need to squint, but this morning I am wide-eyed and there is a quality of light, gypsy and unfolding. I wait for it to find your body, mute.
There is no code in the static of the radio stations we are caught between tonight.
Loves, I’m reading for Bank Heavy Press at Gatsby’s Bookstore in Long Beach, CA. The reading starts at 7pm on Nov. 16th. For some reason those crazy kids thought making me their feature for their Kisses with Fishes edition was a good idea. Here’s the Facebook invite ( if you partake of such things). https://www.facebook.com/events/396297383774519/ …
There was a quiet hymn in the cars that passed on the street below the second story balcony. She stood in a summer dress that made him remember peacocks at the zoo his mom had taken him to when he was seven. He had forgotten about the zoo. In fact, it seemed to him that …
I have burned my hand and chipped my nail polish. That’s as poetic as we are getting this week.
The shells I collected last summer kept their promise; the wind has waited all these months. I listen. Smile and hue return.