Approach

#1

I don't feel as You can. I can't.
Incapable as a shoe.
In some fashion
It manages to be
Simultaneously unbearable
And absolutely Right.

#2

Don't give me a second thought.
No no, you just eat and expound and caffeinate.
Why would I want your condition?
Lucky for me, it's about as contagious as a parked car.

#3

My:
A made-up
Plastic
Flammable concept.
Draw it out.
Delivered by the snake,
Accepted under skin, then
It festers
Erasing bone,
Consuming blood,
Creating lack.

Direction for a Self-Portrait

I’d start with a round shape. Well, I guess if we’re going to get fancy, let’s do almond. A Japanese person once told me I had an almond-shaped face. But they’re strange that way, always eating seaweed and bean curd and stuff.

Add some yellowy snarls of hair around that thing. Imperfectly parted and disobedient. Include some commentary from my grandmas while you’re at it – twenty-eight years into this thing called life and they still can’t get over that I have curly hair. Maybe they’re jealous I won’t need a permanent when it’s time for the round-head all women are fated for. Or maybe they’re flipping through the files of their brothers and sisters, in laws and uncles by way of my tresses, remembering which ones had curly hair, too, and how it was in great uncle Gordon’s hair as well. But we don’t talk much about him.

Don’t forget the fixings. Lips that pull over smallish teeth and gargantuan gums, two bluey eyes, a set of ears and an Anglo-Saxon beak. And skin. Sticks of concealer have told me I’m fair, ivory, light cream. I would suggest tying a whitish crayon to a pinkish one to an orangish one and giving the forehead a good scribble. You’ll get the point.

And of course there are the smatterings:

: The mini crater on the seam of my left nostril, once an astoundingly large pimple in tenth grade. My dad called it my twin sister. Mary Simensen and I, in our genius way of prescribing topical remedies, slathered wart remover on it. It burned through my skin – no, I should say it ate through my skin. But I guess it did the job.

: Scar on the bottom of my chin from a tragic roller skating accident.

: Slight circles under eyes.

: Constant flaring of nostrils (if you can do that on paper, that’d be great).

If you want to apply a general feel, I’d bend pieces and lines to the tune of intrigued - maybe an eyebrow up, or something. It’s OK if you can’t erase it. It’s a good idea to me. A life full of questions and interest and pursuit.

Shaving Day

It's the last day of march, and that means time to shave off my two year beard and make way for Mustache April. That's right. Mustache April.

I must admit, there were a few tears streaming down my cheeks as I sheared off my long luxurious face-mane.

Oh well, it will certainly grow back, but for now I will enjoy a solidarity of one. Let Mustache April begin!

More Rough Stuff.

I stutter here

trying to pull down words

metaphors

clever twists

that can spell love, thankfulness and desire

I want to leverage them like boulders from my mind

so they could roll down this page

but my hand is weak on the lever

and my mind slow and stuttering

Because thses boulders are too big for a page

too big for a day

too big for me

too big for me

the wieght of your love is five blankets in december keeping me from the cold

the wieght of my thankfulness is the weight of water in june pressing your ears but holding your body free

The weight of my desire is the is the wieght of gravity, unyealding , inevitible , constant

So I stutter

try my hand

determined to return

and attempt to leverage again

It's never enough.

Zenith Lake

Back to the grove of ancient trees I take my soul, I take my soul
Beyond the sunset and the moon, out past the twilight in the north
Beneath the shadow of their age voices whispered with respect
To climb is to ascend the sky, the windblown symphony on high.

Back to the stillness of the lake I take my soul, I take my soul
Through broken trails and splashing brook, out past the twilight in the north
Floating on our tiny ark, two by two we paddle through
Shelter from the cities flood of noise, filth, and senseless blood.

I cried a bit. Which is silly really, because it wasn't real at all. Then again, neither were the tears.

Papa, time to get up, he yelled, tugging at the covers. Huh? I plucked my tongue from the roof of my mouth and swallowed twice. That sh** taste didn't leave; it wasn't even lessened. Papa! Here I got a kiss for you, he planted one on the back my unshaved head. Gettup breakfast is ready, he shouted. Uh huh, yes, I replied burying my face deeper into the pillow.

After jumping on me, pulling blankets off me and tickling my toes a bit, I got up.

I pulled on old clothes. Blinked copiously. Wiped drool from my lower lip.

I wasn't sure why I was sad, not just tired but sad. I don't often wake up sad. I wiped my eyes. No tears, just crusties, sand, some goobers in the cracks. I was downstairs in the bathroom when I remembered. I was crying, weeping, sobbing, when was that? I remember my body shaking, my lips like little leaves in the wind. I remember Michael's hand on my shoulder as I fo0und the end of myself and sobbed. I sobbed so hard even he looked surprised. He'd put his hand on my shoulder and then walked away.

And then I remembered. In the fog of him walking away, was a little boy yelling, Papa, Wake UP!

So I can't remember the last time I cried in a dream, but although my pillow was dry this morning, I had that feeling, the release of having a good cry. Which is a bit foolish, because none of it was real.