Tuesday, February 28, 2012


Thoughts Under A Turbulent Dusk:


If I was a great poem I would bleed like sunset -- raw plumb blurs stacked on shredded peach over a city of potholes and garbage.


Charcoal smears cut through Tuesday night's sky that shined in Lily's frightened eyes. I watched dusk die in a blaze while I talked to her. Good girl Lily.


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Nineteen years ago I wore the heels off my new black boots walking Albany's cold concrete with Catherine. I didn't like the guy she liked. I didn't like that she moved to Albany because of the guy I didn't like. What is it about guys anyway?


Years later at a rotten desk job with a grimy phone the supervisor said to me: you know, Becky moved to Florida.

Huh, I said, so what's his name? Another girl after another guy.


I never reached down past my shoes and tore out my roots to run after a guy. What have I failed to see? Or, maybe I just like my cocoon.


I never played with dolls and dreamed of a family. Guys? I never thought much about it. I would glance halfheartedly at the future and only see me.


I have to think that life is not just me, but about standing with somebody. Do you agree?


Premature spring blooms' paper-thin hues will be face up in an inch of snow tomorrow. Life just doesn't happen in the right order sometimes.


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