Journal Leaks

Brown skinned left hand with gold wedding band lower left corner rests on bottom edge of two notebooks/journals. Top journal has Klimt painting of women angels dressed in gold. Brown leather journal underneath.
A Piece of Scarf

I've made you a piece of scarf.

Yes, a piece of scarf.
It's blue and bluish in a
crisscross kind of pattern I've just learned
called a basket weave.
Except it's not a basket
and I didn't weave it.

It's a piece of scarf.
Quite striking actually,
interesting at the very least.

And yes, I suppose it is only the very least
a piece of scarf you can never wear,
you can never wrap around your neck
or drape over your shoulders.
It's only a piece, mind you.

A piece of scarf
for you, though
a token of my affection
a hint of warmth and coziness
that I can't quite deliver in full.

A piece of scarf that is visible
in its incompletion,
whose potential shows up
in thousands of missing stitches.   

(November 2017)

    
Es hilft nichts
  sagt sie
Da ist nichts zu machen
   sagt er
Das wird nichts mehr
   sagen sie

Nichts.
ist nichts
wird nichts
hilft nichts

Eben. 

(Februar 2018)



I amI might be
a routinea regret
a habita challenge
a dutya mess
an appeasementa hassle
a compromisea detriment
a reality checka deal breaker
a mismatchan assignment
an Americana mistake
a riskan exhaustion
a volatilitya strain
an accusationan impossibility
a dismissala reminder
an exclusiona dread
an expensea warning
a lossa vulnerability
a gaina chore
an ambivalencean anger
a reasona resentment
an excusea departure
a disappointmentan absence
a draga damage
a mixed baga cost
Identity calculus

(November 2020)

3 Unfinished Coming Home/After Work Poems

The Wrong Feelings

If I were looking for a title I might choose The Wrong Feelings. The wrong feelings, you know,

one of these feelings is not like the others…

Or can you see which feeling does not belong?

Child’s play essentially / so easy to spot because

of course THEY ARE THE WRONG FEELINGS

Anyone can see that!

The wrong feelings put tears in the soup, rage in the linen closet,

simple ass frustration under the underwear.

The wrong feelings love white bread and dark beer mixed with ginger ale

Will take vanilla ice cream also with ginger ale and a shot of rum well after 9pm

but just before 10.

The wrong feelings shun exercise and meditation, feel like

yeah, been there, done that, nah.

My very wrong feelings are so familiar like house slippers only

a few months old and already worn beneath the heel. The wrong feelings know how to create

their own groove, carving themselves deep into my hyperactive psyche

trying to get free on the cheap.

The wrong feelings got legs when all I want to do is sit down

They got time, they got patience

They wrong, not hurried.

The wrong feelings know my name, call me over

and over; they sing

girl, don’t you know we here ’cause we yours?

We not wrong. You can’t read and don’t wanna listen.

We are not what’s wrong here.

We just real.

Fear of sitting down

It’s never fully OK to report the extent or depth of my exhaustion. I have learned to lean in so close to the door frame that it’s impossible to tell who is holding whom or what. I hold myself over the flames that will also roast the chicken which will hold the flavor better if I keep it and myself covered and preserve the moisture of the flesh careful not to let it bake too long lest we become tough and unappetizing. The chicken and I are at risk of failing our potential. The parallels are so striking. Watch now. We are both done. Which of us is the burnt one?

Poem 3

is late and undernourished. lacking purpose, vision, art.

REally no reason such a stretch of words should bother to take up

space.

And yet, here it is, a paucity all its own.

Writing My Way Out of a Paper Bag

paper-bag-2804433_1920

I can write my way out of a paper bag.

There, I said it.

“I am large, I contain multitudes” wrote Walt Whitman.

“Me too,” I replied.

I’m trying to pull a book together. I won’t say write a book because not all of it will be from scratch. The goal is to compile, gather, thread and punctuate several pieces of writing with new connective works. On some days I am fully convinced that this is a great idea. On other days, I end up shaking my head and walking away. And here’s where it gets interesting.

When I walk away (or even run away), what do I do?

I go hustle for approval. That’s right, hustle for approval.

I do this at home, at work, in the car, on my phone, in every imaginable context. I make the play again and again, always hot on the heels of some kind of affirmation goodness. Like this:

I run the dishwasher before my partner gets home.

I pull the secret sweets out of my backpack and hand them to my grumpy 10 y-o late in the afternoon when I still have to go grocery shopping.

My students ask, “Is it Awesome Gym Day?” and I think for a moment before saying “Yes, but you’ll have to set it up.”

I return my library books on time and take out two new books. The librarian smiles at me.

I get on Twitter and start scrolling and read two or three blog posts. I quote retweet with a passage from the piece so folks know that I actually read it.

I sweep the bathroom floor after combing my hair because, you know, all those brittle ends go flying all over.

Of course I braid my big puffy hair so that it lays graceful and flat against the side of my head and provides little cause for comment.

I put plenty of cream on my face so my skin looks smooth, even the bags under my eyes.

When I’m talking to others I try to focus on listening even if I’m not all the way in the mood.

I stand at the far corner of the track so that my athletes struggling through the last 150m of a 400 can hear me cheer them on.

So I far I’ve kept my body in about the same size category for about 40 years. People see me and say “you haven’t changed in years.” The effort required is an ongoing accomplishment and never ending challenge at the same time. The hustle is real.

At the end of the school day, I pack up my equipment and drag it back into storage and try to make sure it goes back into the right spaces. My colleagues trust me not to leave a mess.

At home I maintain a particular level of messiness but I can still find things pretty easily. It’s a skill. I may straighten my space up if we have company. (Rare)

I don’t write on a schedule. But someone somewhere always reads what I post and I can’t really quite get over the miracle of how that all takes place.

When I meet parents I usually know their child and have something good to say about him, her or them.

I read to my youngest before he goes to bed. Both of us love this ritual. There’s a special mutuality to this hustle.

Lots of people I know have a hard time imagining me angry. They have simply never seen me that way.

So these are some of my every day hustles. Writing this post certainly falls in that category, too. Hustling for approval is what I do. I want to be seen, liked, appreciated, and loved.

When I am not working on this larger piece of work that is begging for its own future, this is how I am spending my minutes, hours, days. No mask, just the real deal.

I contain multitudes as much as Walt Whitman and I can write my way out of a paper bag while I run around gathering approval points anywhere I can. Truth.

 

  • I am borrowing the term “Hustle for approval” from Brene Brown who uses “hustle for worthiness” in her work.