Sunday, November 9, 2014


It’s a sunny Saturday morning, after a few days of waking up to the grey. Which, of course, does set off the remaining leaved tree in the yard nicely, but still, hard to beat some light cutting through the darkness. Emmylou is curled up at the top of the stairs, just outside my door. Cooder is curled on her pile of pillows, getting some more sleep. I think they have both been on mouse duty at night.

Sunny Sunday afternoon ... but it will be dark in an hour.

Been packing up, which is always an interesting, if simultaneously tiresome, task. I always find things I had forgotten about. Today, I ran across a book of notes for poems, which I was writing for a bit back in the mid-90s. This one must have been an idea for a children's book: The Journey of the Nose, Blowing.

This one is unfinished, and I have no idea who it was written about ... And be kind as these are just scribblings, but 

In A Japanese Restaurant

Sleepy, sated, still weighted with you.
Still wondering.
Still frightened
Kicking my feet, yet resting on solid ground.

Racing and napping
My fingers still think satin.
My mouth still thinks honey.
Miss Desire longs for your woodpecker tongue
        Yet never enough.

My spirit, my heart hand-locked
Wondering, who was that masked man?
Veiled Arab nomad creepings
Sniffing for the very oil of me.


Never trust euphoria
It felt like falling
Long falling, so long
The ground hurt, you could touch it.
Bank on the pain.
The pain is its own return.
Solid in that pain.

Here is where I start:
I'll get up slowly.
Dodge euphoria.

please anchor my feet ...
One foot, at least ...


Sometimes I can see the woman
I might be, A woman with
Wire bone arms tough and
obvious saying I have lived.
Hands scarred and wizened.

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