Right, Write.

I yawn at work to display distaste; the hours, each day, are sixty minutes.

I haven’t posted on here in a while, but for any followers in Ottawa, I must promote an upcoming reading I have at blUe mOndays. It should be a great time, if I can pull off all the stunts I have planned, so come on out.

I noticed that you had a bridge and a camera, and the clouds at sunset were spelling out RUN in orange lettering. You noticed the breeze pick up along the canal until it brushed past your bare arms and brought gooseflesh to your skin. I took this as ominous and looked around for danger. You squinted and smiled until trees rustled in perfect harmony with a passing ambulance siren. I noticed that while I had been watching you, someone had tied my shoelaces together and stolen my wallet. I was fine with this. You put the lens-cap on your camera and whispered a “thank you” to the optical instrument, or the sunset. You stepped off the bridge into the dusk and found a wallet on the ground. There was no I.D. or cash. There was only one picture of a worried woman. You looked exactly like the worried woman, only younger, but only in the way you dressed. You lit a cigarette and walked down a dark alley.

6AM came as 6AM does, and the cat jumped on the bed. To the cat I said, you’re not allowed in the basement.

In the ear canal, someone hears, cares, nods along.

Yes, this one is for you and the stumbling weather of last night’s unexpected snow, kind of wet. So, I wonder how you got home and who with. In fact, that’s all that comes to mind until a few shots of whiskey helps keep the eyes open a few hours later, and thank goodness. Thank goodness! I saw the goodness in you and poured milk into it. How star-like, I thought, punching the walls and watching the flakes fall. There’s so much earth just begging to be covered in pavement and snow, waiting to be walked all over. Ask the earth how it feels about that, don’t worry about me. I once saw a broken tree branch shine a smile overburdened with fruit and the thought of sacrifice. Yes, it was all for you and the sky might even shed a few more flakes happily and just to see you smile.

It almost seems colder inside with all the emptiness.

Sharon Van Etten, “We Are Fine”

measure happiness by the number of beers consumed; determine relationship status by who shows up; clean apartment of all unnecessary memories and associations; finish writing “to do” lists for improving mental health; re-read ambiguous and obscure poems by past lovers; overthink an outfit and wear holey socks; purchase another plant to state an apology on my behalf; try to wipe up spilled milk without a paper towel or cloth; consider buying more cigarettes to solidify this downward spiral; identify chain-smoking cigarettes as sign of a downward spiral; search for articles on transgendered poetry, to stay current; attempt some exercise to say that not all is wrong; budget a membership to Oxford English Dictionary Online; worry about a lack of skills in conversation; attempt to remember the subtext of some previous interactions; repeat the phrase, “we’re fine, we’re fine, we’re fine, we’re fine”; measure confidence by the number of whiskey shots downed in a row.

From the fresh ground of admitting wrong, the fresh face of exhaustion can grow a little bud of love’s flower again.

Now, while I try not to think of where you are, there’s a shabby structure of security, new coffee boiling over some flames that sprung after some effort, a nice breeze, a few snowflakes, and I’m asking how I still got here.

You ping the surface and someone in the room notices the walls are holding the ceiling up, and you put something into a box and I take a drink. All up, the idiot reminds us the glass isn't a solid or liquid. Drunk, this blows our minds. Later, you blow and I blow and we measure how much air is around us, breaking the surface of our language as things hang somewhere between the ceiling and the floor. I have been an idiot and modelled a whole poem out of matter that isn't a solid or a liquid. You were drunk then I kept drinking and surfaced hours later and a little more liquid than solid. When I pissed, though, all became right again.

Well, I'll see you when I see you, maybe later, or maybe when my eyes open up to taking the blame.

It wakes you up, occasionally—before the sun has time to warm the room, put you into words. Caught in my throat, there's something I've been meaning to say.

a bruise

could talk some more talk