The Six Suites for Unaccompanied Cello by Johann Sebastian Bach

I.
I try to write it this way:
Anguish.
Exquisite.


II.
Going down is the hard part.

The ravine is cold.
I am alone.
I am scared.
The woods are deep.

I am scared because I am alone and because the woods are growing dark.



III.
I cry the nearest approximation of the sound of my heart breaking.
He drives away.
I am standing in my socks on the asphalt,
cold. 



IV.
The old man at the party wore his sweater tucked into his jeans.
I laughed when others made fun of him.
Not to his face.
But I laughed. 



V.
I do not want to be blamed for this.
I am so very sorry.



VI.
I have been invited to a moon-howling.
There will be a campfire. It will be dark,
save for the moon, which will be very bright. 
The boy who loves birds might come. 
Fifty or more of us will gather together. 
We will stand shoulder to shoulder as we scream.

mouthful

What are we gonna do???


I think it is just a stink bug...


Thank goodness!

In no particular order and without exhaustion here is a list of things that have changed my life

the waterfall glens
       Wilson the cat
backpacking trips
       camping in Vermont
the broken lampshade
       Amish furniture
a number of bands and musical arrangements
       gardening
yoga
       books and writers, and a few select photographs
works of art that I no longer remember
      the tick on my inner right thigh
people I love and have loved
peeing in the woods
     fingers and bumpers
Winnifred the subaru
     living on a couch and from the trunk of a car
hostel sex
     Spain
     Guatemala
     Ireland
him cooking for me
the first time
    that rock on our backs on it
Oberlin anarchists
recycled bracelets
activism
    Mrs. P
    my adopted grandmother
being labeled a leader
    teaching
Colorado mountaintops
cross-country tripping
composting
    hand-knit gnomes, mittens, and dolls
watercolors
     feminism
painting
    lying on my back
    misanthropy
drinking in high school
     my lung collapsing
multiple relationships
     being harassed in Washington, D.C.
environmental studies
    cultural theory
     jams
     rain boats
phone counseling
being hit
learning to eat again
      collaging
     rejected hand-made ceramic bowls
     desirability
buying new clothes
     running, squat thrusts, weight lifting
     chiropractics
cinnamon
     going gluten free
moving a lot
intersectionality and rhizomatic realities
poetry
orange polar fleece

in a white room and a curtain fluttered*

"That which you hold holds you" 

 -Tom Robbins

You who come to me in sleep

touch me

fold my body to your body—

mock me, 

your pity eyes dark

in the woods

by the water

inside the gazebo—

I love you.

Love me. 

Don't—

You leave me when I wake.

You leave me when I wake. 

*From "Try to Praise the Mutilated World" by Adam Zagajewski

Cigarillos

This is not about race.
He stole cigars.
He listened to rap.
His friend had tattoos.
He was huge.

A spade is a spade.
A stolen cigar is a stolen cigar.
A gun is, well —

His mother receives a letter.
In it, lamentations from another member of the aggrieved.
It wasn't about her son's race.
He was threatening.
He covered his face with a hoodie.
He was carrying Skittles.

For all we know they were stolen.
That's the end of it,
right? 

Philadelphia

If eating vegan marshmallows after breakfast is wrong then I don't want to be right.


There are three drops of my blood on a bar's pool table somewhere in Philadelphia. They are close to the pocket on the bottom right side.

The difference between a small, grungy dive bar with a jukebox and neon green lights inside and a boutique beer list with wrought-iron sidewalk tables is exactly one block (and several jello shots).

The inside of a Rite Aid at 1:00 am on a Saturday morning is the great equalizer. A room full of people cheering for the man who found his Cheetos.

My kingdom for a king-size bed.

Creaky stairwells and loose banisters and waking up in the middle of the night needing urgently to pee.



The next morning I bite into bacon, lean back eyes closed and chewing, when I open them again I say to the waitress you have given me a new lease on life. She laughs and I tip well.

We walk all over the city and then run for the train, 35 minutes along the waterside trail underneath the art museum.

I shit you not: There is a line of people each waiting to take the exact same photo of themselves in front of a statue of Rocky. One by one they raise their fists over their heads.

The train ride is sleepy and uneventful. After setting down my backpack in the kitchen and kissing Wilson on the top of his head I walk to the park, lay down a blanket in the grass, look up at the tree branches above me blinking.

Back home in bed I sleep well, dream I'm an FBI agent in the middle of a life-or-death investigation. I slither beneath stone walls and test a blind man's veracity, confident, I will not let that woman get hurt.

What does it mean to be non-hegemonical in everyday life?

If I paint the walls will anyone notice this home has been condemned?
I bought a bucket at Rite-Aid then stopped to play the piano for the young man on the sidewalk.
Music for everyone he says I say I can get behind that.

In the hot grass lot I trade two organic Capri Sun rip-offs for three shots of vodka.
That concert changed my life.

The kitchen floors are mopped, now, the sink scrubbed down, the dishwasher run.
Why don't you go and find it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~


After the rains the world cools down. Damp wood and puddled roofs.
When I ride my bike a thin black line of water appears on the back of my shirt.

I have no one to talk to about this.

Tomorrow I will build supports for the tomatoes and peppers.
One cut bleeds on my knee, the other at the base of my left hand's middle finger.

The rainbow plant drowns.
The begonias are due for a watering.