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yellow

Grandma is yellow. Originally diagnosed as jaundice, her subsequent dizzy spells, fatigue and disorientation led to further testing which yielded this - Grandma is dying of liver cancer. She is yellow and has a few weeks to live.

I live six hundred miles away so I called her.

"Grandma, it’s me, Aden."

In her polish accent, "I know who it is."

I can hear polka music and Grandpa pounding his cane on the floor. He’s shouting, Who is it, Lucy? Who is it?

"Goddammit, Chester! Shut your mouth! I’m talking to our Grandson!"

Which one? Grandpa chimes.

"The only one that calls, you old fool! Aden!"

"Did I call at a bad time?" I ask.

"No! No! This old fart’s driving me crazy! Every time the phone rings he thinks it’s a doctor with a miracle cure. That there was some mistake at the clinic. Can’t he see? I’m yellow! I’m tired! I just want to sleep, and he’s in that kitchen bitching and banging his cane on the floor. Tap! Tap! Tap! Boom! Boom! Boom! The way he carries on I can’t even watch golf on TV! I swear to God, I’m going to shove that cane up his ass before it’s all over!"

I can see her holding the phone against her big beautiful face. Silver hair. Thin small lips. Big green eyes staring at Grandpa. I cannot for the life of me picture her as yellow.

I ask her, "How are you doing?" then think of how dumb I am. She’s dying. That’s how she’s doing.

"I’m not dead yet," she says.

"That’s good, hey?"

"I guess so..."

She covers the phone, but I can still hear her. She’s yelling at Grandpa.

"Turn down that radio and stop banging that cane or I’m going to beat you with it!"

Grandpa hasn’t been handling it well. I learned this from my Mom. In fact, everything I know about Grandma’s sickness has come from Mom. She’s having a tough time too, but she’s dealing with it. What’s keeping Mom sane while watching her mother die is making the funeral arrangements. She says it’s like planning a vacation for someone that’ll never return.

Grandma comes back to me. The music is quieter. Grandpa’s not banging his cane.

"There," she says. "Finally, some peace and quiet."

"What did you do to him, Grandma?"

"Your Uncle Denny came and got him. They’re going to Posen to get some petunias. All I want is to sit on the porch in the summer sun and look at the flowers and birds."

"That’ll be nice. You always have the best flowers."

There’s a long pause. She breathes deeply. Yawns. As always, it’s contagious, and I’m yawning too.

"So, what do you want?" she asks.

Her directness is expected. Familiar. But it flusters me all the same.

"I called because I was thinking of coming to visit."

"Visit? Don’t be crazy! That’s too long to drive!"

"But I want to see you before..."

I cannot finish the sentence.

I listen to the polka music in the background. Hear her breathe. Deep again. Another yawn.

She’s in her chair, I bet. In her burgundy recliner that never reclines. The TV is on. Shaky picture detailing the latest golf tournament. Always, she roots for Tiger Woods.

"He’s so damned cute!" she’s said, time and time again.

In between sips of Milwaukee’s Best, "Look at him. He sure can hit that ball. And the way he moves! It’s so graceful!"

The family thought maybe something was wrong with her a year ago when she took to watching golf so much. And Tiger Woods? A young black man? As far as we knew Grandma had never even been out of Northern Michigan, let alone seen a black person. But this change, her new interest, was a nice break from the incessant dinging and buzzing of game shows and the greed-driven, sex-filled soap operas that had previously greeted us during our visits. It was really something seeing her there. In her chair. Leaning forward. Smiling. Hands wringing around a can of beer as Tiger stepped up to the tee.

I hear her clearing her throat over the long distance line. Then I hear her taking a drink of something. I look at my watch. It’s 11 o’clock in the morning over there in her little white trailer near the lake. About the time she usually cracks her first beer of the day.

"You drinking a beer?"

"Shit no! That damned woman’s got me so doped up I can’t drink anything but water!"

"What woman?"

"That one from Hospice. She’s a pretty little thing. And nice too. If you come home I’ll introduce you."

I smile. My Grandma, sick and yellow, but trying to set me up with the woman who has come to help her die.

"She’s pretty?" I ask.

"Oh yes! Dark brown hair, brown eyes, very pretty. Pretty like that snotty one you used to date."

"You mean Tyler?"

"Yes! That talker! Christ, I’m glad you got rid of her."

"What’s this nurse’s name? Maybe I know her."

"Oh, you would have to ask...I can’t remember her damned name now. Let me ask Grandpa..."

She covers the phone and calls for him. I cringe.

"Chester! What’s that nurse’s name? Chester!"

She keeps yelling even though Grandpa and Uncle Denny are on the way to Posen for petunias.

Mom says that since Grandma’s started dying there’s been more action around the trailer than ever before. Aunts cooking meals and cleaning. Uncles planting flowers and trees. Grandchildren stopping by. I can’t help thinking how sad and beautiful it is the way death awakens the love in us all.

"Oh shit," Grandma says, "I forgot. He’s gone to Posen for potatoes."

"Petunias," I say. "Wasn’t it petunias?"

It’s cruel the way the mind goes.

I remember a party one summer when the generations had gathered for a reunion and Grandma was the link that brought us together. Grandma was young. Thin and tall. Her skin tight and fresh. She smelled like spearmint. Her mother, my great-grandmother, was there in her wheelchair. Legless and blind. Telling stories the only way she knew how - in Polish. So Grandma sat next to her, holding her purple spotted hands, and she translated the stories for all of us to hear.

"Potatoes. Petunias. It’s like my brain’s in pea soup."

"It’s okay, Grandma."

"No. It’s not," she answers. "I’ll find out that girl’s name when she gets here."

"Do you think it’s the medicine they have you on?"

"I’m old. That’s what it is . I’m falling apart, Aden. I’m falling to pieces and I’m the only one that’ll admit it. Everyone else is walking around with blinders on. It’s stupid. Here I am, an old woman, and it’s like I’m a baby again. People waiting on me hand and foot. Feeding me. Waking me. Putting me to bed. For crying out loud, I’m even wearing diapers again!"

Mom’s told me this. That Grandma pees her pants. That Grandma shits her pants. Mom and Uncle Denny clean and change her and put her in her chair on the days she’s too weak to do it on her own.

"Well, think of it this way," I say, "you’ve taken care of everybody and now it’s our turn to take care of you."

"It’s foolishness! That’s what it is. Diapers. Can you imagine?"

I can’t imagine it. Like I can’t imagine her sitting there all yellow and dying just as the best part of Michigan’s summer is coming round. Bright warm days. Cleansing rains. Grass blades and buds greening to life. Grandma is supposed to be stocking bird feeders. Sitting near the kitchen window watching blue jays, sparrows and canaries as they crack and scatter seeds. She’s supposed to be doing loads of laundry and hanging wet clothes on the line between the two giant cedar trees so that long waves of color sway in the Long Lake breeze. Instead, Mom goes there every day to change the bedding, to make sure Grandma’s taking her medicine, and to make sure she’s clean. Mom loads the trunk of her car with dirty clothes, dirty sheets, and cries on the way home because this is not the way it’s supposed to be.

"You sure you don’t want me to come visit?" I ask.

"What good would it do?"

"Grandma, I want to see you before..."

"I know," she says. "But I don’t want you to see me like this."

Last time I saw her was Easter. Her trailer was decked out with stuffed bunnies, plastic eggs, and baskets overflowing with mounds of candy-filled Easter grass. She was sitting in her recliner wearing a white sweatshirt that said, "WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDMA!" in big red letters. Mom had purchased the thing at K-mart and given it to Grandma for Grandmother’s Day on my behalf. Seeing her in it, knowing that she believed it was a gift from me, filled my stomach with shame.

"Wanna beer?" she asked, as I sat down in the only other chair in the room, a plastic lawn chair.

The television was on. Tiger Woods was nine under par. Grandma was glowing as she handed me a beer.

We drank and watched the game. Green grass. Yellow flags. Men in sunglasses, hats, and wrinkle-free clothes. Brand names on everything.

"What do you think about all that advertising?" I asked.

"Who cares?" she said, "It’s about men putting their balls in holes!"

We laughed so hard we spilled our beer.

Grandma is not politically correct and she is not always right. What she is is True.

"Life’s too short for bullshit!" she said to me after meeting Tyler, the girl I thought I loved. An attractive, one dimensional, vegetarian feminist who believed that it was not only ghastly in this day and age that Grandma raised and butchered chickens, hogs, and rabbits, but that it was heartless and cruel that Grandma believed that it was okay to shoot an animal if it was suffering (in this case a 13 year-old blind, arthritic hound that she asked Uncle Denny to shoot while we were visiting).

Grandma drank beer and listened to Tyler go on about animal rights, medicare, and the ills of red meat. But when she started in on the harmful effects of alcohol, how it not only destroys the human body, but that its consumption is usually an indication of "deeper emotional problems", Grandma looked at me and said, "Talk! Talk! Talk! She talks too much about too many things that don’t mean shit!"

Then she looked at Tyler.

"Do you believe in Santa Claus?"

Tyler looked at me uncomfortably. Shifted in her chair and looked up at the fly paper hanging from the ceiling. One fly, still alive, was buzzing furiously. I could tell that she wanted to reach up and let it go.

"I said, DO YOU BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS?"

"No. I mean, I used to. When I was a kid, but not anymore."

Grandma sipped her beer.

"Why not?"

"Because, I think Santa is an early form of social control."

Grandma leaned forward and smiled. Her little lips never parted, but stretched wide and made tiny dimples in her big red cheeks.

"Go on..." she said.

"I always wanted to wait up and see him, but my mother and father always insisted that I go to bed. They said that if I didn’t go to bed Santa wouldn’t come. They said that if I wasn’t a good little girl I wouldn’t get any presents, and that if I didn’t do as I was told I would not grow up to be a big girl. But they were wrong. I waited up for him every year, and every year I saw the same thing. My drunk Mom and Dad putting presents under the tree."

"Well then," Grandma interrupted. "They were wrong."

"Wrong about what?" Tyler asked.

"Look at you now. All grown up into such a big girl!"

By this time the fly was screaming. Grandma leaned back and looked out the window at a sparrow that was on the window sill looking in. Uncle Denny walked through the yard with a rifle in his hand.

"I beg your pardon," Tyler said, "I am a grown woman, not a girl!"

Grandma kept on looking at the sparrow. The sparrow kept on looking at her. I watched Grandma and the bird and I waited for the gunshot.

Grandma, sounding bored and tired said, "I know I don’t even have to ask this, but you don’t believe in God, do you?"

Grandma was right. Tyler didn’t. And up until then Tyler had nearly talked me into believing that God was a hoax, a trick, a crutch, that Jesus and sin were part of a story. A story created to keep all of us in line. Under control.

"Everything is not black and white," Tyler hissed. "There is an indefinite state of gray!"

The gunshot was louder than I had expected and it made me jump in my seat. I knew then, as Tyler stood up stomping, that we would not last.

Grandma remained in her chair and spoke quietly.

"I agree. Everything is not black and white. Everything is gray. But you are a girl and you’ll always be a girl until you can start believing in things you can’t see."

With that, Tyler ran out the door. I looked out the kitchen window and noticed a couple of canaries had gathered near the sparrow. Uncle Denny was walking by again, this time with a shovel and a burlap sack.

Grandma stood up.

"Time to feed the birds. They’re waiting for me."

"Need any help?"

"No. You better go to your girlfriend. Things are going to be different between you now."

"I know," I said.

Grandma turned and opened the fridge. Pickled pig’s feet. Pickled herring. Hand-picked eggs. Chicken breasts thawing for supper. She reached in for a beer.

"She’s no good for you. A talker that doesn’t listen."

Grandma put her hand on my arm and whispered.

"Girls should listen more than they talk. Everyone should. And girls with big mouths have big holes. This one, she’s been around. Probably is still going around. I tell you this so you’re careful."

I gave Grandma a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and told her I loved her and that I would see her again soon.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she gushed. "Stop with the lovey-dovey horseshit! I got to get out there and feed the birds!"

Grandma’s banging pots and pans.

"Making lunch, Grandma?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Better get ready to feed the old bastard when he gets back from Posen. If lunch isn’t ready, he sits like a canary chirping on the windowsill. Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Feed me! Feed me!"

My yellow Grandma and her yellow birds.

"You don’t worry about me, and don’t worry about making the trip. You’ll see me soon enough."

"Okay, Grandma, but before I go I want you to know..."

I hear her breathing. The slight movement of the phone against her face. The polka music still there, but only slightly, like a whisper. I want to sit and talk until the phone line goes dead. I want to turn up the music and listen as she translates the words. But I can’t because it is time to go.

"I know," Grandma says. "I know."

June 12, 2005

6:32 PM

The weekend spent at The Gabions hasn’t got me as relaxed as I had hoped I’d be. I’m tired. Full. Wishing I could sleep for a day. Or two. Would like to sit, have an ice cold drink, and talk with you. It gets tough sifting through all of this, but the older I get, the more I realize that the strongest growth comes from the ability to think and believe on my own. We learn from others. And we learn from experience. But growth is personal. It belongs to, and is of the individual.

I enjoyed myself. Felt comfortable and at ease in the woods, near the water. I fished. Waded the Au Sable. Played horseshoes. Ate great food. Had a few drinks. Listened to stories. Told by friends. And told by nature.

Inch worms dangling.

Minnows in the shallows.

A woodpecker hammering away.

Partridge thumping.

Coyotes crying.

Wind through grass and leaves.

Wild flowers. Bursting with color from the shadow of the trees.

Perspective - no matter what I do, what happens to me, nature keeps moving. She is as cruel and unwavering as she is beautiful and nurturing. There’s a bigger plan at work. Cycles and cycles upon cycles and cycles. We’re all part of it. And it is part of us. I’ve been thinking that for a long time, and it’s only being driven into me deeper each day.

My time at The Gabions, in the Au Sable, was no exception. Standing hip deep in fast-flowing current, feeling the sun’s rays reflect from the water into me, looking at the sandy bluff hovering over me, I was content. Connected. At peace. And all I wanted to do was relax, go down, and let the river take me. To disappear into it without anyone knowing.

But shell’s are always left behind, and our existence, as insignificant or important as we believe it to be, is always traceable. Trackable. We can be found. If people care to look. If people care to examine surroundings through senses and soul. Through observation and absorption. Who we are can be identified by others if we care enough about what we keep inside the shell. All the bones, burials, and graves we leave behind cannot begin to tell our story.

I think about the tracks I’m leaving. Think about the prints all the time. Not because I believe that I’m more important than anyone else. But because I have been blessed with the ability to leave a solid imprint. A unique track. A colorful shell. Some people push through days without any sense of time, place, or being. And they live their lives by marking things off a personal TO DO LIST. A grocery list of sorts.

1 pint of education

2 sticks of marriage

four dozen car payments

1 barrel of mortgage payments

a good healthy dose of god

and a sack of kids to go around

It’s a list that’s been written and passed on for generations. And we move through endless aisles putting items in a wobbly-wheeled cart, working our way toward the checkout, oblivious to the cost, because we’re happy with what we’ve bought, and pleased because we’ve played our role. Hunter, gatherer, provider. The good Christian soldier on a mission of consumption so that life’s cycle is sure to go round. Feeling content with his shopping experience, he heads through the big shiny doors, into the light, clutching the receipt in his hand, unaware of the price he’s really paid for the little he’s got.

Eventually, bones rot. Shells dissolve.

The sand. The current. Animals and insects. Light and air. The dark. All of it works away at us. Reducing us to what we are. Potential energy. Food for thought.

Back from camping, my cupboards are empty, but I have no intention of shopping. Not today. It’s good going hungry. It builds stamina. Strengthens the heart. Strips away unnecessary layers, pushes the mind to levels beyond daily consciousness and basic thought. Helps ward off the rotting. The slow, simple-minded descent into complacency. And it fuels the fire of want. Helps us to reach beyond the basic constraints of need, and pushes us to achieve successes that can’t be measured, or marked off a list.

What do you hunger for?

Or do you hunger at all?

~ k.j.

June 7^th - 2005

Sunshine on the river. Songbirds over my shoulder. In blooming bushes. On the shale ridges. Above, in the late afternoon blue, seagulls circling. Swallows swooping. My lure sailing through the breeze, splashing into the water.

Several hits. No fish.

Another story about the one that got away.

Into this new year - number 32 for this old boy - I’m finding more validity in the old saying "grace under pressure" than ever before. I’m beginning to comprehend the importance of being as positive as possible. My problems are mine. The best thing a man can do is keep to himself. Get through on his own. Nothing good has ever come out of spilling his guts.

Has it?

Need to go into hiding for a while. At least for a few days. Haven’t been working the brain enough. Haven’t been writing hard enough. I’m getting softer. Weaker. Taking days for granted. Letting time slide by.

And there goes another second. Fluttering by. Swooping down. Blooming in the bushes.

A fish. Unseen in its surroundings.

A man. Invisible in the sunlight. Nothing on paper. Washed away by the river. Waders filling with water. Lungs going under. Breath as good as gone.

What’s important is to remember that you were in it. Part of it. The river. The song. The breeze. What’s important is that you remember...

"All of it was more important than me."

~kj

Birthday

Time to put it away. Up. Out of sight. Time to run away from being run down. To stand and fight. Time to recognize time’s passing.

What are you asking?

Of me. Of you. Of the world.

What are you asking?

Or are the questions too deep? The answers too shallow? The end too near to touch?

I’m wasting away. Falling apart from the inside out. Drowning here. Drowning, but nobody can swim to save me. Nobody can drain the tub. Cap the bottle. Do anything to help me. So I must remember this - a kiss is just a kiss - and love is about saving yourself.

Night’s coming on strong. Hot. Humid. Thunderstorms slipping by in the dark. My mind falling to pieces. Dreams pushing through, pulling me down, and as another Monday comes around, I realize that there’s very little for the taking. More give than take. More up than down. A quiet slice of silence. A drum booming sound. Caught in chaos. Putting a knife between us. Spilling our existence all around. Pooling up on the floor. Slipping. Sliding. Rolling around in our own mud. Happy to be so clean and dirty. So needy and wanted. So dead while being so alive.

I’ve torn myself up. Out. Have pushed myself into the disposal. Flipped the switch, and have begun the painful process of grinding myself away. Making my self into bite sized parts. Something that someone can use. The less of me there is, the more useful I become.

Fertilizer.

Dog food.

Glue.

32 years. 32 and what have I learned?

Memorial Day - 2005

Mr. Stevens. Up and at it. In the holy land. Maples birthing new leaves. Lilacs promising bloom. Skies blue with wispy white brush strokes. Windows wide open. The cemetery full of cawing, chirping, chattering. Birds on nests. Life moving ahead.

I mention the scenery, the details, purposefully. In stories, essays, poems. In these vignettes I share. It’s important that they’re mentioned. Shown. Thought of. Daily routine, this social evolution, has all of us away from where we started.

Today, we’re perched in steel and glass. Riding on rubber and foam. When our feet finally find earth, we hardly know it.

What’s happening to an appreciation of the simple things?

I cut the grass last night. But I left the chives. The smell this morning - felled grass and dewy chives - is head-clearing. And clearing is what I need.

I moved to this town believing that there’d be a very good chance that I’d stay. Settling down, being a homeowner, a monthly bill payer, seemed like the thing to do. I imagined myself writing more. I was certain that my productivity would increase. I was sure that after a year I would feel myself pass another growth mark. That I’d write another book. But I have not.

I’ve had internal growth marks since I was a kid. Every year or so, I would come to a place in my life where I’d get this enormous feeling of AH-HA! Something would happen that would make me look back at myself, my past, and I would be able to FEEL that I had changed. Internally. That I had reached a new level of understanding and appreciation. That I was different today than yesterday.

Unfortunately, since moving back to my hometown, I feel that the learning curve has been reversed.

Most of it is my own fault. I haven’t been reading enough. Haven’t been writing. Haven’t been engaging myself in interesting situations which breed interesting, thoughtful conversation. What I have been reading, what I have been writing has not been put to use. People aren’t much for talking around these parts. Unless it’s gossip, sports, or sex it isn’t a topic. Though I’m aware this is the case elsewhere, that Alpena isn’t the only place where this happens, what I’m also sure of is that people here do not make an effort to know things beyond their boundaries. And again, this is the case everywhere, but what’s important about Alpena, and small towns like it, is that it is a microcosm of our society. And it makes me worry.

What disturbs me most of all is that people have the potential to be great, but get caught up in mediocrity. Not every one of us is going to be an Albert Einstein, Ben Franklin, Louie Armstrong, or Margaret Atwood. But why don’t more of us try?

So often, I meet people who tell me that they aren’t good at anything. That, I think, is utter bullshit. Nearly every person I’ve ever known is good at one particular thing. Musicians, knitters, bowlers, hockey players, fisherman, dog trainers, welders, painters, movie critics, cooks, bird watchers, and the list goes on and on. Yet, for some reason, people don’t realize their talent, their ability, and they let it fall by the wayside. It ends up being a memory. Something they once did, but now they don’t have the time. Or, and this is most common, it becomes a hobby. Something a person does when they have time, but more often than not, something a person does to pass the time. All of us, passing time. Letting it get away. Being good Christians. Being even better consumers. Voting God’s choice. Drinking beer in the Lazy-Boy. Cutting the grass and making up stories. Being fine examples for kids we’ll have, or for kids we’re trying to raise.

What, I ask, will our children think about? Will they be as artificial, phony, and fearful as we have become? Or will they learn from our mistakes and be brave? Will they rise? Or will they continue the fall?

Why can’t I scratch the surface? Why can’t we get beyond what we are and become what we are to be? Better yet, why can’t I get beyond what I think we should be and accept who we are?

Here I am. Analyzing people. Analyzing society, and I don’t have enough common sense to stop wasting my energy on this and write a goddamned story. All I ever do is jerk off anymore. If practice makes perfect, what does pretending to practice mean?

I’ll be leaving this town soon enough. On my way to Kalamazoo, where I’m sure I’ll bitch some more. Expecting so much. Knowing so little. Wanting all of us to want more. I’ll finish up that Master’s degree. Participate in some formal education. Earn a piece of paper. Frame a degree. Be proud for a moment. Then spend my days building a nest. Somewhere near the maples and lilacs, where life is important because meaning is not seen.

~kj

D & M Railroad

I’m under the willow tree

drinking ice-cold soda

watching dad and grandpa

both of them shirtless and sun-burned

squinting under the brims

of their baseball caps

drinking blatz

and pabst blue ribbon

as they aim and take turns

throwing horseshoes

the train comes out

from the pine grove

pounding the earth

like some manmade monster

awakened from hibernation

full of noise and fury

and there’s just enough time for me

nine-years old, skinny, tow-headed

naive

to set aside my pepsi-cola

get a nickel from grandpa

and run to the tracks

dad watches

as I scare grasshoppers up

from field grass

and they leap,

and buzz, and land

all around me

I trample black-eyed susans and butter cups

and little brown-winged moths rise and flutter

taking skittish paths

from one patch of purple clover

to another

boys will be boys - grandpa says

he puts a dip of chew into his lip

hands the can to dad

what if he falls - dad asks

I crouch at the tracks

touch the steel rails

feel the rumble

as it runs up my arm

and the big yellow eye of the train

grows and closes in on me

the sun’s hot on my head and my back

sweat drips onto the dry railroad tie

a small pool of me shimmers

then slips into the cracks

I set the coin onto the tracks

turn and run away

from the rattling and screeching

of metal against metal

toward the horseshoe pits

grandpa and dad

until I’m out of breath

and back in the shade

of the willow tree

holding my pepsi

the sides dripping wet with condensation

cool against my hands

as I wait and watch them

grandpa drinks his beer

dad spits

they throw their shoes against the stake

and talk

but there’s nothing to be heard

because the train’s busy

doing its passing

burgundy and black

the dark colored boxcars

of the D & M Railroad

blurring by

how thin can a nickel get?

I wonder

and take a drink

unaware that there’s a bee inside the bottle

buzzing around the tapered neck

circling furiously

ready to sting my lips

December 18th - 2004

it's not mine

I'm not worried about it. She knew what she was doing. That's why she met me there.

But what about the result?

What result?

You know she's pregnant.

She was that way when I got her.

That's not true.

Yes it is.

She's going to give it up.

I know.

Aren't you going to stop her?

No.

But it's a sin.

It's not a sin.

It is. It's a sin.

I'm not worried about it.

Why aren't you?

I don't believe in god. And it isn't mine. It's her husband's.

She isn't married.

That doesn't matter.

How can it not matter?

She was married. And she was with him, catching up, trying to make things work, before she ever came to me.

You don't care.

I care. That's why I'm not doing anything. She needs to make her decision. Not mine.

What would your decision be?

I haven't a decision to make.

Ambivalence is a sin.

Is not.

How can you say that?

I don't believe in ambivalence either.

December 9th - 2004

If they can't click through a few pages to find me. To find it. To find some new writing, then fuck them. That's what I say. Just a big, plain old fuck 'em. I'm growing weary of giving a shit about people. Tired of trying to make conversation, not only to hear, but also help people hear themselves. But the sad thing is, people aren't aware of what they sound like. Not you. Not them. And definitely not me. So maybe that's why I'm here. Hiding on a different page.

Moonlight on headstones. Walking through the dark in a cemetery of snow. The dog leading the way. Dodging through bushes, headstones, and row markers. Moving by scent. Pulling us along. I trust he knows where he's going and I follow. Just looking around. At that moonlight on the headstones. At the stars in the sky. White, fuzzy dots. Faraway places.

And yet, here we are.

On this little old page. Black on yellow. Together again. And all it took was a few clicks. A couple of moments. Some of this time.

What did you do today? How close are you to moonlight on the headstones? Can you trust the nose of another? Have you spent any time in the cold, icy night, thinking upon a star?

getting the newspaper

                                                Petals rise to sunshine
                                                Grass shakes dew
                                                Naked feet find
                                                A way
                                                Over the cold
                                                Sidewalk
                                                Bodies bend and bow
                                                In the glory of morning
                                                To pick up printed worlds
                                                And carry the ink
                                                Into tomorrow

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