Sep 2017
spend /broke
I am here. I could spend all my days reading your wires. I could spend all my nights writhing writing responsa psalms.
perhaps I do, for after all, I am here
{~for Mara, Denel, Liz B.; Patty~}
I string fences too, bury birds, insects, living sons, tho just out in the back of my ex-mansion brain. want to write simple, effectively, like you guys, and want to live simple ample effectively. cant cursed, cursed canticle Kant cant. so the day commences 2000 plus emails chirping read me and I've just arrived, but I do not, bury them in a mass grave with an effective 'delete all,' not even thinking what might be missed, missed
what happens when u run out of fence, land, good silences, and spending becomes broken? spending, breaking, chicken, egg, simple, too many words, to read, to write, so which will come first?
738am
I am here. I could spend all my days reading your wires. I could spend all my nights writhing writing responsa psalms.
perhaps I do, for after all, I am here
{~for Mara, Denel, Liz B.; Patty~}
I string fences too, bury birds, insects, living sons, tho just out in the back of my ex-mansion brain. want to write simple, effectively, like you guys, and want to live simple ample effectively. cant cursed, cursed canticle Kant cant. so the day commences 2000 plus emails chirping read me and I've just arrived, but I do not, bury them in a mass grave with an effective 'delete all,' not even thinking what might be missed, missed
what happens when u run out of fence, land, good silences, and spending becomes broken? spending, breaking, chicken, egg, simple, too many words, to read, to write, so which will come first?
738am
Liz B.Fledgling
Traci Brimhall
I scare away rabbits stripping the strawberries
in the garden, ripened ovaries reddening
their mouths. You take down the hanging basket
and show it to our son—a nest, secret as a heart,
throbbing between flowers. Look, but don’t touch,
you instruct our son who has already begun
to reach for the black globes of a new bird’s eyes,
wanting to touch the world. To know it.
Disappointed, you say: Common house finch,
as if even banal miracles aren’t still pink
and blind and heaving with life. When the cat
your ex-wife gave you died, I was grateful.
I’d never seen a man grieve like that
for an animal. I held you like a victory,
embarrassed and relieved that this was how
you loved. To the bone of you. To the meat.
And we want the stricken pleasure of intimacy,
so we risk it. We do. Every day we take down
the basket and prove it to our son. Just look
at its rawness, its tenderness, it’s almost flying.
Traci Brimhall
I scare away rabbits stripping the strawberries
in the garden, ripened ovaries reddening
their mouths. You take down the hanging basket
and show it to our son—a nest, secret as a heart,
throbbing between flowers. Look, but don’t touch,
you instruct our son who has already begun
to reach for the black globes of a new bird’s eyes,
wanting to touch the world. To know it.
Disappointed, you say: Common house finch,
as if even banal miracles aren’t still pink
and blind and heaving with life. When the cat
your ex-wife gave you died, I was grateful.
I’d never seen a man grieve like that
for an animal. I held you like a victory,
embarrassed and relieved that this was how
you loved. To the bone of you. To the meat.
And we want the stricken pleasure of intimacy,
so we risk it. We do. Every day we take down
the basket and prove it to our son. Just look
at its rawness, its tenderness, it’s almost flying.
