Friday, March 2, 2012


One of the downsides of wearing glasses is that they are easily tear-stained. I mean, if you are crying. I just need more of those good wiping cloths, I guess. So many times this week, I have noticed, after a time, that I am looking through cloudy, salty liquid stains.

I just came across this poem at

by Rusty Morrison

No sensation of falling, which suggests that this condition may be flight.
My eyes might be open or not. My coffee poured into a cup or
onto the countertop. This, a ball of saved rubberband or the thick clot of tremors
I usually keep deep in the drawer that I can trust will stick
when I absent-mindedly forget, and try to open it.
What would it mean for a body to yield?
A use.
That is to say, dew moistens the grass and is gone.
The body moves out of its past with each glimpse of its own
disappearancce, cumulatively. With each drop of rain the earth's atmosphere pelts
its grove of tall cedars and saplings
with equal force. A body
negating itself as an object possessable. To hold one's breath would be to drown
in order to avoid drowning.

Still rainy outside. I did get out for a walk, ya know, nothing quite like cryin' in the rain and all. Night not grey. Flight or falling, at this point it is hard for me to tell which. There is gravity and then there is the gravity of a situation. Not the heaviness exactly, but which way does one get pulled?

And for you language experts out there, have you noticed how paltry are the words in English for gratitude and thanks?

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