generations
my mother used to sleep on her kitchen floor when I would come to visit. she insisted. somehow, I can inhabit my son’s room when company calls. somehow.
my mother used to sleep on her kitchen floor when I would come to visit. she insisted. somehow, I can inhabit my son’s room when company calls. somehow.
cleaning the house: vinegar, rags and incense to honor my visiting aunt. cheese, and milk for coffee, a new soft chair, a pillow. the rain stops. well-pleased nose.
let the critics have their barbecue. my father’s out-of-tune, glad-hearted singing; the inelegant poem my friend sends in the mail: these are my rice and beans. http://www.napowrimo.net
Late October and now I wear a wool cap around the clock, take three naps a day. I’ve no clear memory why this happens, something about the earth tilting on an axis. Yesterday twenty-three sandhill cranes flew north. Why? – Jim Harrison, Suite of Unreason scratched into the inner groove: “the sandhill cranes.” the band […]
and who has met a newt, near midnight, dancing beneath ones toes, while watching orion dance with the moon and plotting tomorrow’s dances? give up? the only answer.