POET | PLAYWRIGHT | TEACHING ARTIST
I am sitting at the desk. Slight fever. The space heater’s white noise is filling the room. And I notice myself hum. On the exhalation. A single note. And again. Hum. It’s a D, according to the app on my phone. Too sharp to be properly flat. It’s as though white noise invites more noise.…
Because I forget too often. And I cry when I remember taking note of the all the days slipped byand still I’m unable to acknowledge this imperfect bowlof my own making or what has been tossed into it by passers-byby prophets, by bricklayerslike medieval poets or what has landed here – nothere – like a…
Rosemary oil is for memory. And the little blue electric light on my desk tries to make up for the season’s darknesses. That’s not a typo. A man lashes out because he can’t escape himself while I can’t find myself. I’m not afraid of curses anymore: I’ve stopped apologizing. I’ve emptied my pockets of posies…
Memories are so unreliable. I can’t remember how I learned about travel destinations, or about diseases before the internet. How did I get through high school or college and what exactly did access mean then? Was there a time when I knew how to read a map? My reading then was indiscriminate. Scholastic book club…
These vacation weeks always seem to slide by, and I think that is fine. I’ve moved almost easily through the days and taken advantage of the sunshine for a change. Leonard’s muscles are stiff from the long walks to the lake and back, but he is smiling. My muscles are sore from the morning rehab…