Sunday, May 10th, 2015

when i die, i won't 
have a favorite color anymore
i'll no longer know the meaning 
of green
or if it's something i'm 
supposed to see, or smell, 
or press between my fingers
i won't remember this
hole in my chest
which is bigger than
all the things
i've ever known in the world
if they were stacked and 
spread out and 
multiplied against each other

i'll have forgotten my 
confusion about how, exactly, 
i was ever supposed to 
prop up that emptiness, lug it around
all my life and still be
expected to notice beauty, 
humor, softness, all the 
little things
i'll never know again
my failure to do so, my 
surety of that task's 
impossibility

in death, there will be
no memory, as i now know it
no tiny limbs missing
from around my neck
no laughter quieted
no fine silky hair needing 
a brush
no miniature funeral dresses
no more visions of 
tiny death vests
no more dreams of a man
i am shocked and suddenly 
so very grateful to see again
none of that, no them
no me, no more
heavy sadness, no more
special days
no more the torture of 
my happy life, stolen, 
spent too quickly, nothing
in death, nothing, and
today of all days
i can't say i'm not 
ready, so ready
for that nonexistence
that absence of 
absence

Family Condition

I have an extra toenail

it runs in my family

just a tiny sliver on 

the right pinky toe

No one would ever notice

but it’s there, 

separate, defined

I get it from the mother side

and in that line it’s

rampant

mother, grandmother, aunts

my sister

passed on through 

woman to woman

our most basic

and meaningful inheritance

Unlike the witches of old

we don’t have the full deformity

only the sharpest part

the little bit that

points, needles

stabs at us until 

we do something about it

Even I forget it’s there

most of the time

until I take a 

twisted step too far

out to the left

or run into something

I should surely have avoided

and then- a pain

a small, sharp pain

running down the outside

of my foot

and suddenly-

ah, yes now

there it is

my inheritance

The family condition

and saving grace 

all wrapped up in one

Room #11, Windows Open

and now then light

the little lamps, the ones that

though they don't do much work

still need to be on

and look out past 

the church tower, past

all the thrumming of 

the porch, the paths, 

look beyond the two tall

trees to the right

and find the invisible line

that separates

sea from sky, or

doesn't

at this time of day

listen to the French horn, 

the gull, the shiver of 

the branch by the window, 

the Canadians

come to know the way the 

palest blue, on the edge

of the farthest everything

rings true, goes beautifully

into the center, 

so that 

when you feel it come, that joy, 

to rest within 

your stomach, 

you're almost 

sick to it

Let Go The Walls

packing him up for New York, 
in his backpack I find
a 9-volt battery, a bus pass, 
a dirty pair of ear plugs. 
and there he is. 

I spread them out on the bed. 

listening to him in the other room
putting on mixed up tracks, 
I hear him over there
and yet
here he is right in front of me
on the bedspread that needs washing. 

a spent battery that
his guitar pedal must have
used up months ago,
a crosstown trip 
he took on February 21st of last year. 

I miss him already. 

I spend hours memorizing 
the feel of his big arms
all around me
not just holding 
but
loving me,
loving even the spaces around me
just because they are
close to me. 

in the next room
he slows the pace,
switches to jazz,
and I suddenly remember
how we are all made of 
molecules
that have no boundaries,
how even the brightest minds of our time
can't explain
why everything doesn't just
pass right through 
everything else,
how we are all mixed up,
how no one knows why
we can't see it. 

and just like that
I find the way,
the first reasonable thread
that I can pull, 
the start of letting go 
that lets him be
inside my cells
all the time,
the way even his old 
bus pass
has come inside my body. 

he's always home with me. 

I let go the walls
and he starts playing Tom Waits. 
there is nothing else
but us. 

This can be your good deed for the day!

Hey y'all, my good friend Spike Gillespie is the author of the blog Meditation Kicks Ass, in which she skillfully navigates the internal landscape of distraction, grief, terror, anxiety, love and gratitude. You know, that basics. She has just launched a Kickstarter campaign to help get her on her way to transforming the insights she's learned through the past year of her dedicated meditation practice into an honest-to-god book that we can all curl up on the couch with while eating an entire pecan pie and some jelly beans. Or whatever the fuck you guys eat while reading good books. I don't judge. Anyway, LET'S HELP HER DO IT! 

Because Spike is (aptly) known as the Human Facebook, many of you may already know her, and for you guys I have no need to explain her awesomeness. You already get it. For those of you who may not have heard of her before, I suggest you click the Meditation Kicks Ass link up there and do a little digging around that blog. I dare you to not find yourself within her words and be highly entertained. I double dog dare you. You can also hop on over to her other delightful blog about Man College, wherein she regales us with adventures of Thursday afternoons spent at a tattoo shop learning all there is to learn about manly things. And sandwiches. And fake dog poop. And one time the baby Jesus. In short, if you don't check it out, you're just… you're just not experiencing the fantastically hilarious and well-rounded existence that is literally at your fingertips. Seriously. It's time to start living your life, people. 

Every little bit helps, and she's worth every penny. Go on over and check it out, and spread the word if you can. Feel free to send a link to this page, or just one directly to any of Spike's pages, to anyone you think might wanna help. Remember, with Kickstarter, you don't have to pay until the campaign ends, so go ahead and pledge away, even if you still have another week or so before you get your illicit drug-smuggling funds back from the money launderers. You've got until April 3rd, and that's plenty of time even by the agonizingly slow standards of money laundering. I've heard. Not that I know that for sure. Just guessing. Wink, wink. 

Like A Toothache

You will always be
farther away from me
than my losses

they are like
a tooth in my mouth 
you cannot be closer
to me than that 
than they are

what is lost to me
festers
relentless
ricochets
around my skull
makes ping-pong noises
that drown you out
at every hour 

nothing is close to me
you are all
too far gone 

I spend my days
tonguing my gums
distracted by
the ache inside me
hovering just above the hum
that is
everything else

what was becomes
the absence of what was
becomes
all there is
a tooth that can't be
pulled 

Apollo's Intuition

Outside the band's practice space
Apollo, the rambunctious doberman, 
paused overlong while
sniffing my pants
and then, suddenly still, 
he stood with his head 
sloped over my knee
for once not 
galloping around and 
tugging the war
his head silent and 
laid next to the smell
stuck upon my jeans
and I wondered
as I stroked his back 
if he knew
if he scented the death 
that had come upon us 
last Sunday
and was pausing his
usual play
to momentarily mourn with me
my own dog
who is no more