Saturday, August 2, 2014

Today a child in Gaza lost his home & his entire family & collapsed in exhaustion on the floor of a bombed-out hospital as I spent the morning writing letters & listening to The Ink Spots.

None of us deserves the gifts or the horrors before us.  Our human brains demand that we impose a false logic onto this chaos, but maybe order is a lie.


Tuesday, June 17, 2014

One day when I die they'll open up the top of my head and a herd of elephants will come charging out and somebody will say, "Huh, looks like she made out pretty well considering everything that was going on in there." 

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

I'm keeping the word joy in the middle of my mind--turning it over and over again until it is shiny and bright.
I am sharpening it into a blade. 
This is my only weapon in a pit full of lions.
I am the Michael Jordan of sad.
I am a ticker tape parade of sad.
I am the Eddie Van Halen of sad. 
I am the Carnival Cruise Line of sad.

Monday, May 26, 2014

What's at the intersection of an obsession with death and an obsession with the creation of meaning?  Paralysis.  Melancholia.  Despair.
The sad reality is: you spend all day in a box and then when you cross over, you'll spend all day in a box.
There's more sound and fury now then ever before.  So maybe you make an effort to throw your own voice into that swirling cacophony, thinking it will make a difference, but why?  What for?
Once I was driving at dusk, heading into my hometown.  I turned a corner and it seemed I was heading right into the sunset, all violet and shades of rose.  The sky made up like a whore.  I had this epiphany, "Existence is forever.  Now that I'm in it, I can never get out."  I felt so tired, then.  Tired to the point of sickness.
Ever since then I've asked myself, "How do I break loose?"  Maybe that's the only true freedom.  To be nothing.  To have nothing.  Know nothing. Want nothing.
But here I am.  Stuck in these maddening circles of desire and craving.  Grasping at small things that will make me forget for a moment.
Maybe you'll say I'm depressed.  That I "suffer from depression."  Ridiculous.  You learn how to minimize the gravity of it--how cavernous it is. You get so good at the song and dance, you do that old soft shoe in front of trained professionals and they brush their hands together, "All done!"  They clock out feeling satisfied and go home to their own shit. 
The real condition--the actual feeling--it's so much bigger than a word.  Especially one co-opted by big-pharma, a word you hear all the time on television and see in the glossy folds of magazines.  "Anxiety and Depression, Anxiety and Depression, Anxiety and Depression." They're the goddamn Laurel and Hardy of our times.  Even your troubles are commodities now.  Things you can use to get you out of a boring situation, badges to make you feel special--things that might be able to save you from an honest day's work.
Fuck a name.  It's a feeling that bucks off a name like a wild horse.  You can't name it because it isn't yours.  It belongs to the universe itself, something older than time--almost holy.
What's the solution, then?  You can't outrun it, you can't cheat it--it always finds you.  It spots you hiding behind your stupid pleasures and points its finger at you and waves.
 "Here I am.  Hello, there.  Here I am still."
Maybe the only thing for it is to keep going through the motions.  Moving your body this way and that, in the ways deemed acceptable.  Relying on your muscle memory to get you through all the smiling and requisite laughter.
That's the terrible thing.  That maybe we're all fooling each other.  That maybe we all feel it nipping at our heels, but we're too proud to admit it.  
    

Sunday, May 25, 2014

The Poem is the Antidote to your Parents

Fill up on bread.
Start running.
Don't look either way.
Don't wear a sweater.
Forget your lunchbox.
Don't learn a trade to fall back on.
Take that tone with me.
Make me repeat myself.
Make me come back there.
Make me turn this car around.
Mess up your room.
Let yourself fall apart.
Go, go, go, go, go.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
Don't even bother to look.  Just leap.

Friday, June 28, 2013





You are the scab I pick over and over,
The whip I use to beat myself.
Your spectre hangs on the back of the bathroom door.
 I stare at it day after day as I sit on the toilet and tell it,
"Things would have been different if I had known.
I still love you.  I'm sorry."

I want to write graffiti in your memory,
Buy an ad in the classifieds to tell you.
Anything to absolve myself of the inky guilt
Of still giving a shit.