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To Love the Stars

“I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” ― Sarah Williams

Flight 7823

The clouds are mashed potatoes only they aren’t heavy like the ones I make.  They dangle below us and shush me as I gaze at their approximation through the passenger side window, which is thicker than life itself but still feels cold.  They spread fat shadows on the tan land below (there are people there, too, but they have disappeared).  We are bathed in sunlight while the invisible ones think it’s a cloudy day, overcast, cast over, but we know otherwise.

Meditation

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I just want the days to unfold like I tell them to

or

not tell them to, exactly,

but think to myself that they should.

I want to be absolute master of my time

until I remember how it worked out

the last time,

how it wasn’t enough

after all.

Permutation

I go slow in the quiet

to the hum of the box fan.

There’s time, it soothes,

there’s time for everything

and

I take a sip of bitter coffee

and believe.

Trump

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Disgusting pig fat pig animal face of a dog ugly,

you say to us

about us

because you can.

And I say

as I sit here

a woman

shaking my head

that

even if you win, you will never win.

Saudades

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If I could dream in Portuguese would I curl like smoke?  Would I cry swollen verbs and walk with swinging hips?  Are some sighs, after all, reserved for borrowed tongues?  Do thoughts float like restless ghosts unless we manage names?

 

Longing

People want things

of you

of themselves

of God.

Maslow says it’s simple

but I don’t think it is.

They want everything,

everything,

Everything Forever,

their holey insides unable

to hold more than a few

drops

at a

time.

Procrastination

dutch-boy

When you don’t want to write

you think of all the

littlest things you

must do,

like drink coffee

and

make your bed

and

rethink thoughts

and

update your status–again–because

that’s also important,

because those words aren’t

threatening.

And all the while, you are Hans B.

with your finger in the damn dam,

waiting for the moment you can’t withstand.

Still Here

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This quiet

a vibrating

carrier wind

of all the things in the world

(things

inside the mind

and,

pressing through the veil,

all the things outside it)

this quiet

where hidden knowledge hides between

heartbeats

is where You are waiting,

never tired.

Electric Zen

The refrigerator is buzzing

and we don’t know why.  It’s a Buddhist monk

of a machine and we can’t wake it if

doesn’t want to be.  We stomp and jump near it

open and close doors like we’re prying secrets from a mind

and still it chants modern mysteries

closes its eyes

ignores our wild expressions

until we give up and walk away.

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