Great.

I know that when the great wet comes
We'll climb.
Some will roll, and the thunder never heard,
Defines us all.

I know that trees and water and rain
Have soaked me to the bone
And one without the other
Isn't possible.

And I've spent hours in a pool
Of water by a raging river,
Getting colder by the minute
And minutes pass like hours.

I know that somedays I can't feel hunger,
But I lessen and lessen
Until I'm a whisper of myself
Grasping foolishly to a rind of bread.

It's true that some weeks
And years and months and days
Will float by
Wild Strawberries.

The grass cut
The tooth brushed
We're ready to move on
To our next diswant.

I know that the things I say
I can't remember
But I can't remember
Why I didn't want to at first.

Frequently wrong,
It's entirely possible
That this was a great gamble
Turned up red.

It's not that I won't
It's just that this David
Can't have children.
He'll be someone different.

Can you morn the loss
Of yourself
Like a 10 year separation
Estranged from a child of the past.

I know that I've been alone,
Keeping myself company
for 25 years,
It'll take a few more at least.

How.

Rebelling against your own generation is problematic, and shows your discordant nature. You should think, I'm not a musician, I'm not an artist, I'm not a creator. What you are, if you don't ride the wave of the age-community, is a piece of meat that the sausage girl feeds to the machine. You're the gristle, I'm the tube. Do you want to be the gristle or the tube?

Up all night.

I stayed up until dawn. More specifically day-break. I ate at a diner with friends at 345 am. Not four, but we did leave then. As I crossed town, the sky blue with cold, is it summer yet?

I was reminded of my childhood nighttime wake-ups. Did my parents know? Every night for at least 3 years, I must have been around 9 to 12, I would wake at about 3 am. Of all the insomniacs, I was not one. I am still a heavy sleeper. Slept through a hurricane. Slept through a tree falling down. Slept through two trees falling down. I can sleep.

I'd wake up at 3. Most nights on the dot. Maybe that's what spurred my interest in literature. Normally, I'd read myself to sleep. But really, I didn't read myself to sleep, and I was only reminded of this today; I'd read myself till dawn, and dawn myself to sleep.

It's not that I was afraid of the dark. It's that dawn has always represented to me, a giving up. An exhausted admittance, that whatever fear that comes with the vulnerability of sleep, whether it be imagined childhood monsters, or the real life adult equivalent like debt, and home-invaders, dawn shows us that the world goes on, unrelentingly. Give in, dawn says, you've already waited too long. Just sleep.

Good night. I've already waited too long.

F.

I think obliquely I think
My grandfather used to say
"My bubble is a little off-plumb."
Which refers to a level, etc.

Hum.

I got a text message today, it suggested I call into Talk of the Nation, an NPR show. The subtext was that I should angrily call in, demanding that in fact this "Army of New Teachers" our schools need exists already: I am one of them.

I feel invisible Arne Duncan, Secretary of Education. I'm right here. I pay my rent with bar money. I live in a basement. I'm extremely qualified. Have glowing recommendations. Have a fucking Master's Degree. In fact, I've had that since I was 24. Some people might consider that an accomplishment.

It hurts me, to be ignored. I'm worried, that in this coming year I won't have a job in my field, and in the following year, I'm worried lacking 2 years of experience, I'll be less qualified, and fail to qualify for license renewal.

I'm angry. I'm not entitled. I don't feel fulfilled. I don't feel challenged. I don't feel like I'm helping. I question the values of higher education.

And so today I also got an email. Happy interviews sometimes, it seems turn into unfortunate emails. Why didn't I get that job? Should I move to LA if they want me in the fall?

It's hard for me to move. Places weigh heavily on me. I'm deeply connected to place. People are ok too. Humble in all the wrong ways.

Stat

Write your poems, keep them in a desk drawer and be upset as a ghost in 70 years when they're published posthumously. Also, you're a sea captain. Captain of the Sea.

And so the slow burn set in, not during the broil of the furnace, but instead as night set and the moon washed black. A bread baked after the house cooled.

And with the arrival of the bright orb a brief period of happiness began, noticeable at first by the acute, pert stiffness of activity, and followed by the happy wilt: It would not last forever, but forever would be here for at least a short time.

Best.

Love is for people who don't have sandwiches.

Sometimes things are worth looking at.

Don't take pictures of people or landscapes,
Take pictures of people's things.
Take pictures of your things, everyday.

I peed in a rain storm yesterday,
and figured it didn't matter if it was a riparian area,
But secretly,
I still felt a little guilty.