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Literature Text
time is relative - for example:
calendar dates are not the same
for every person. we form mosaics
out of the year; patchwork dates
of anniversaries and first kisses
and the day that he went missing.
these overlap: your birthday
is someone else’s death anniversary;
if you ever want a lesson in lifetime
calculate the in-betweens of epitaphs.
there are stories there - like those of a spouse
who died days after the other;
the child who would never hear
its birthday song, a general of world war II.
your year will never be your own
after days you can never take back.
parts of you which already belong
to someone else - the trouble
is learning to pencil in anyone else:
does overwriting use up time
or does it mean erasure -
and really, what is it about November?
i don’t think i’ve ever liked planners
for this very reason: there are so many days
that are already not my own -
that are not blank canvasses anymore.
this is how to respond
when people say that a day is too short:
someone learning to ride a bike
is someone else
losing their father:
this is one way of understanding
that time is relative,
and your hours are not always your own.
calendar dates are not the same
for every person. we form mosaics
out of the year; patchwork dates
of anniversaries and first kisses
and the day that he went missing.
these overlap: your birthday
is someone else’s death anniversary;
if you ever want a lesson in lifetime
calculate the in-betweens of epitaphs.
there are stories there - like those of a spouse
who died days after the other;
the child who would never hear
its birthday song, a general of world war II.
your year will never be your own
after days you can never take back.
parts of you which already belong
to someone else - the trouble
is learning to pencil in anyone else:
does overwriting use up time
or does it mean erasure -
and really, what is it about November?
i don’t think i’ve ever liked planners
for this very reason: there are so many days
that are already not my own -
that are not blank canvasses anymore.
this is how to respond
when people say that a day is too short:
someone learning to ride a bike
is someone else
losing their father:
this is one way of understanding
that time is relative,
and your hours are not always your own.
Literature
(How funny, or maybe perfect it is,)
to think I am meat
and spirit
while I eat both.
Yet,
I persist
as matter and
nothing.
Of the static,
that door
still gaping,
a hole
in conception,
would it be real
if I understood it?
If I could just grasp
what I'm not
understanding?
Because language, even
these words, are
nothing.
Nothing outside
me.
Nothing before
me.
Maybe less
after me.
And
the idea?
Nothing.
Nothing but
meat
and even
the spirit
stammers
against
infinity,
against
inevitability,
against
itself.
Literature
Breaking
One day, you will open the cupboard
to find a wine glass or some Tupperware
and the world will, without warning
or alarm, roll off the edge of the shelf
and coming crashing down.
The oceans will splash onto the linoleum,
onto the rug. All the dust in all the deserts
will rain down onto the couch and coffee table,
the hills will crumble, the mountains will break,
all the windows in all the cities will shatter
and fall, a thousand dangerous miles of glass
glittering on your kitchen floor.
Everything will hush.
Exhale the breath you are holding,
and go look for a dust pan, for a broom.
Literature
155 days of rain
the doctor asked me if i felt positively
about myself as a person and i bit his hand,
said send me to Seattle
so i can learn what these scars mean.
the rain baptized only my hair: my entire body
stayed dry but i felt like a mermaid,
a drop of sky turned summer soul. years ago,
a boy came to me from Seattle and dug his nails
into my palms to name me crescent moon.
i followed that crooked smile across state borders,
let it lead me to the widest horizon you can imagine.
our love was Thales’ wet dream: all water,
endless ocean to swim and swim and drown in.
i’ve got strong legs and a weak head,
never knew the meaning of
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i was thinking about calendars and how dates never become just another date anymore after they get inscribed with meaning. not sure i like the ending though
really, what is it about November?
really, what is it about November?
Comments3
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november is my favorite month. it's a lot of things.
i wonder if you meant it in the positive way i'd have meant it if i said "and really what is it about november".
another relative thing, isn't it? funny.
the very last three lines don't quite hit like the rest of the poem, but i love the way the last stanza starts out prior to that.
isn't it funny that while your life is coming down around your ears in the driver's seat at an intersection, the guy who pulls up next to you has no idea you exist?
sigh.
i wonder if you meant it in the positive way i'd have meant it if i said "and really what is it about november".
another relative thing, isn't it? funny.
the very last three lines don't quite hit like the rest of the poem, but i love the way the last stanza starts out prior to that.
isn't it funny that while your life is coming down around your ears in the driver's seat at an intersection, the guy who pulls up next to you has no idea you exist?
sigh.