A New Kind

We are a new kind of woman.
No, we are the women of all women.
Beatniks incarnate.
We are waiting for America to change,
we are still walking.
Give us a book, we’ll read it like a man,
Our opinions speak for themselves.
We don’t rhyme often,
but when we do, take notice.
Because we drink whiskey shots off table tops.
We make your mothers blush.
We’re loud
and we scream:
"Viva La Revolución, baby!" and dance
with one fist in the air.
Because we know that change doesn’t begin with a legislation,
but in us.
Reconstruction isn’t in bombs, but in love.
Not in the straight-backed pews, but on the streets.
We are the breath, the heartbeat of the world.

People are awesome!

You are the root of the root.

Litany
Billy Collins

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 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 am 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.

While You Were Sleeping

Variations on the Word Sleep
By Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

If you're too afraid of the tears, then just run and hide.

Tonight I saw my father cry. There are no words but to say that it scared the shit out of me, to see the man who is king of my world, the man who carried me outside to see the moon when I was too tiny to know that there was a sky above shed tears of distress. Because suddenly, that man who was giant and untouchable became the old man sitting on the edge of my parents bed with his head on my mother's breast sobbing out of desperation and confusion.
Each tear shed was an anvil tied around the string of my heart. I've only known my father to cry twice in my life. Once when my brother Timmy died... but that was simply a story told to me by our family pastor; simply hearsay, but it haunted my pastor too, to see my stoic father in agony over Timmy's death. The pastor said that was something he would never forget--indeed it is. The second time was when I was about nineteen: I was coming out of a severally rebellious stage, which had driven a wedge between my father and myself. One fateful night, he simply gathered me in his arms and told me he loved me. It was as if a scene from some Hallmark movie had lifted its skit and crossed the TV's threshold into our living room, because he held me a sobbed.
Now I'm not against tears, a few tears now and then is a healthy thing. Tears of pain, tears of joy are one thing-- but tears of desperation, tears of fear are something completely different. I've never known my father not to have things together, not to have an answer.
That is what scares the shit out of me.
In retrospect, I realized that there was only one person I wanted to talk to, one person I wanted to share this with, my fears and anxieties... that person I've placed as far from my life as can be. That person is a non-existent blip on my radar screen. I don't want to be the person without anyone to share a life with.
I was not meant to be alone.

Once upon a time I became a wolf and you a dragon.
There is no denying a transcendence,
when there is nothing of who you are, of who you aren't left.
When words become weapons and thoughts like bombs, bandages are
in short supply and there's not enough liquor left to
numb your heart. As you pace the floor and I cry on
the bed in that little apartment there was nowhere
we could hide from each other.
So you with that fire in your belly and
me with all my rage at the moon tore down the glass walls
of that room with flames and wails until
all that was left was fog and silence.

More and more here lately, I am finding that the harder you hold on to something the quicker it slides out of reach. I have to ask myself, is it because it is truly that hard to hold on to--is it really that slippery--or is it that there is no value to holding on to it. I'm not going to pretend that I know the answer to it, or that I have it all figured out, because i don't and i probably never will.

This reminds me of me... at my place, books take precedent; if there is not room for anything else, there will be room for the books.

Ukraine has talent: Sand Animation

This is amazing. Kseniya Simonova is from the Ukraine, and she uses sand to tell the story of the occupation of Ukraine from 1938-1945 by Nazi forces.

walking.the.dog

Walking.the.dog

Somewhere in the distance, beyond
strips of pine and stretches of road,
the train whistle of my childhood
rings out.
Like a lonesome lullaby it carries me
back to my mother's room and the moonlight
filtering onto my covers, casting its
sickly, blue light, comforting me
from the sounds of the coyote chanting
to the iron beast on the tracks.
The coyotes have long since moves on,
but the train still blow her unanswered
calls over the river and into the night.

what I want.

untitled, or 109

Remember that time we rode the bus hand, in hand, in hand,
it was the last time we would ever see one another in the same way.
We rode that bus from house to house waiting for the one with enough room
for life and school and space; yet, we found no such place to call our own.
We journeyed across thresholds, our minds on the precipice of wonder,
knowing fully that with each door opened, our thoughts would never been the same.
Your hands were larger than mine, sweatier too. But your eyes held
the same flashing wonder that I knew mine projected. It was the roaming
in your heart I did not see, the wonderlust that burned and smoldered in the dark depths,
sending synapses through your brain.

Love is all I am

shit-howdy sunshine, sit yourself down.

Isn't it funny that I don't feel comfortable
being almost nearly naked in my own house?
It's not that I don't feel comfortable in my own skin.
It's just that the windows are open.

It's not the fact the neighbors can see,
if they want to look, let them.
Nor is it the sound of the cars in the road outside,
those sounds that I used to run from when I was little.
It's just that the windows are open.

The windows are open and they're letting in the wind,
but I don't mind the wind either. The light's coming
in over the window sills, warming the floor boards,
but the windows are open.
And I can't breathe.

Never be the same again

Ah..

There are no words.

On my list:

Reminds me of this:

When the call comes, be calm.
Say to your wife, “My brother is dying. I have to fly to California.”
Try not to be shocked that he already looks like a cadaver.
Say to the young man sitting by your brother’s side, “I’m his brother,”
Try not to be shocked when the young man says,
“I’m his lover. Thanks for coming.”

Listen to the doctor with a steel face on.
Sign the necessary forms.
Tell the doctor you will take care of everything.
Wonder why doctors are so remote.

Watch the lover’s eyes as they stare into your brother’s eyes as they stare into space.
Wonder what they see there.
Remember the time he was jealous and opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick.
Forgive him out loud even if he can’t understand you.
Realize the scar will be all that’s left of him.

Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria say to the lover, “You’re an extremely good-looking young man.”
Hear him say,
“I never thought I was good looking enough to deserve your brother.”
Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say,
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what it means to be the lover of another man.”
Hear him say,
“It’s just like a wife, only the commitment is deeper because the odds against you are so much greater.”
Say nothing, but take his hand like a brother’s.

Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might help him live longer.
Explain what they are to the border guard.
Fill with rage when he informs you,
“You can’t bring those across.”
Begin to grow loud.
Feel the lover’s hand on your arm, restraining you. See in the guard’s eye how much a man can hate another man.
Say to the lover, “How can you stand it?”
Hear him say, “You get used to it.”
Think of one of your children getting used to another man’s hatred.

Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her,
“He hasn’t much time.
I’ll be home soon.” Before you hang up say,
“How could anyone’s commitment be deeper than a husband and wife?” hear her say,
“Please, I don’t want to know all the details.”

When he slips into an irrevocable coma, hold his lover in your arms while he sobs, no longer strong. Wonder how much longer you will be able to be strong.
Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms whose arms are used to holding men.
Offer God anything to bring your brother back.
Know you have nothing God could possibly want.
Curse God, but do not abandon Him.

Stare at the face of the funeral director when he tells you he will not embalm the body for fear of contamination. Let him see in your eyes how much a man can hate another man.
Stand beside a casket covered in flowers, white flowers.
Say, “Thank you for coming” to each of several hundred men who file past in tears, some of them holding hands.
Know that your brother’s life was not what you imagined.
Overhear two mourners say, “I wonder who’ll be next.”

Arrange to take an early flight home.
His lover will drive you to the airport.
When your flight is announced say, awkwardly, “If I can do anything, please let me know.”
Do not flinch when he says,
“Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him after he told you. He did.”
Stop and let it soak in. Say,
“He forgave me, or he knew himself?”
“Both”, the lover will say, not knowing what else to do. Hold him like a brother while he kisses you on the cheek. Think that you haven’t been kissed by a man since your father died. Think,

“This is no moment not to be strong.” Fly first class and drink scotch. Stroke your split eyebrow with a finger and think of your brother alive.
Smile at the memory and think how your children will feel in your arms, warm and friendly and without challenge.

so good.

like a child...

the world is full

free coldplay