post 9 february

justwrite 9 february

the call goes out and beyond a doubt it’s a rout again the same route as before except this time it’s more exciting the fighting has stopped and the pops have been charted all the way to the top I am a whopping ninetynine degrees from freezing but that’s no reason to go out with wet hair there are fares unfair to pay but the way it works jerks its way along just as well without you and there’s no second way about you but the onions coming through the window there’s a draft you know and the frying is enough to leave you crying for butter and another dish also mushrooms if you wish but who’s that brave to save no room for potatoes the way it goes here is that there’s always a clear path in that direction which is a saving grace in the face of meat or famine the calamities of trees ripped up by their roots but occasionally replanted in damp and warm soil black and attractive to those toes who knows how accurate metaphor is who can keep a lid on anything of the sort we are purporting to understand though we have but a simple command of subtleties the troubles we see are in the mirror up close and from a distance as well but on the ordinary level the bus tickets get paid for the money we have saved for rent goes unspent and these are the simple certainties more or less we guess we take our time we spend it on fine china or coffee or Africa or calamine lotion to soothe those feelings still reeling with pain the bandaid pulled off again and the spot twitching first and itching later saving each new page with a turned-down corner ready for its close-up


justwrite 8 february

the territory stretches to the left and also to the right in the clear chance of night rising too early the sun takes a turn and burns off all the rest of the paper the wrapping adapting to the climate change rearranges its ribbons and begins again I am staining the wood on the floor with more than its fair share of care there is hair and staring but there is no comparing these parting words with the left bank the right tank powering up the vegetables the food processor and when I was stretching my stomach was guessing at breakfast west of the horizon surprising each banana pancake mistaken from a song and carried too long into the breach beyond the reach of each curtain call we are stalling out but we are weighing our doubts against the clock I have forgotten how to answer I have taken others’ chances and ignored varied dances because who would like to disco but if you know the answer then you’ve seen those dancers balanced carefully between the wall and the neon-colored advertisements we are spies sent into the dark corners where the mourners drink their punch and bunch together like under-the-weather peonies and poppies adopting deflated poses posies appearing poetic or attempting such pathetic bliss that the one who matters will find attention gathering in this corner will see the spotlight the candlelight flickering toward romance and the next dance will be had and gladly and the blooming will be noticed by everyone but embraced by the only one who matters more than embarrassment the only one sent forth first into this unrehearsed territory planned so carefully aware of the moment and the time spent imagining it into reality