I never said I was brave.

I can`t say I was one of the "cool cats" in my day. I can't say that I dressed right, or talked right, or had enviable toys. I wouldn't tell you that I spent a lot of time trying to impress anyone, at least as much as I do now. But, in my own head, somewhere, I was cool. Oh, sure I wouldn`t tell any one, so it would follow that no body knew to what great extents my coolness reached. Maybe some of my friends knew, or maybe we figured it out towards the end of the year, when we really sat down, &mulled it over. And we realised how proud of ourselves we were: because we liked the people we were growing in to.
So, even now, surrounded by far more "coolness" than I know what to do with, I can`t claim to be any closer to this ambiguously unattainable adjective. But I don`t mind. I still like the creature I`m being grown in to. &I think it`s those humans who don`t worry about being interesting, that are the best at it, any way. So you can have all your apple products, american apparel, polaroids, dave eggars novels, moleskines, &everything else your parents have never even heard of.

But, Merry Christmas, I keep the typewriter.

on [not] being so content

i never really understood all the lines, the frustration, the waiting...
i know, i know, i know...

yip:

back to back with blades touching,
heel to toe and so on &so forth.
you near north;
i scream south.
he met a man, &shared his lunch,
she found a pup, &bandaged her paw.
the middle meets him:
"you don`t know whom i met today."
the middle greets her:
"i don`t know whom you met today."
they tiptoe backwards, till shoulders touch-
heel. toe. heel. toe. heel. toe.
&so on
and
so
forth.

any thing, really.

we forget what it means: lingering under the lamplight, anxious to get home,
holding hands as cold and limp as a freshly caught bullfrog.
saying words like, "oh, remember when?" & "why can`t it be like that?"
well, i am sorry if I had encouraged you to feel any less beautiful, or handsome, or creative, or worthy.
some things ought to be said about that.

f,m,t,w,th,f

i think i have forgotten what it feels like to be little.
shoot.

C-Minor

"We're not half as bad as God is good."

Fridays are the worst

for reminding me that I am not as close as I ought to be.
when the chilly air creates water unbearable,
&all the dogs are begging for daily walkings.
I miss, i Miss, I Miss...
hiding in the pantry, eating tortilla chips,
chasing ducks in the yard,
&being 1 of 5.
i know it`s a stretch to feel joy [the same way every time?]
I know, i Know, I Know...
but, you see, I haven`t been home in so many years!

so this is the true story:
one Thanksgiving all seven of us
ate dinner at a Waffle House
&spent the rest of our vacation in a cabin in the Alabaman woods.

the end.

indeed, there will be time

for many visions &revisions.
366, at least.

okay,

on derailment &other inconveniences

i don`t know why there were no names carved at the base of that trunk.
i circled it once, twice, three times: just to be sure.
i might as well have been a spotted barn owl, or rubbery fruit bat-
gliding back &forth, calling out to no thing in the night.
instead i landed in that tree`s tops, &climbed down to the ground.
[i have no wings, you know.]
&with heavy heart and defeated shoulders, trudged onward.

but my only question is this: isn`t there some one, some where, just trembling to sing?!

the long trail.

i'm having difficulty writing any thing of value as of late.
i suppose it is a good thing, though.
it gives me hours, days, &weeks to think, i suppose.
i do not feel very fruit-full, nor do i behave wisely.

someone just give me a pumpkin to carve all ready.

land-locked blues.

&i'm balancing history books up on my head,
but it all boils down to one quotable phrase:
"if you love something, give it away."

tuesdays

she loves the way you talk: with r's rolling off your cultured tongue like buttons from the shoemaker`s hands.
but he has not mind to reveal the truth in a language misinterpreted.
she loves the way you grin with your whole face, gold-capped tooth peeping out like a mischievous bambino.
but he has not eyes that can recognize a smile of such paradoxical sympathy.
she loves the way you have worked.
&now, she loves the way that you wait.
but he just shakes his head, &grips the wheel harder: racing to retreat to his home on the hill.

j &the whale

hold me close
closely
closer
&rub circles round my bones.

tilt my chin up
upley
upper
&kiss that weary mask.

cradle her head
softly
softer
&whisper hushed mysteries--
even the moon wanes weak.

b.a.-j.f.

I never really talk about you as often as you come up.
No body really asks, I suppose.
But I never inquire, either,
&so memories grow faint, but are re-drawn over &over
until your face turns in to a scribble of words, Irish Spring soap, and amateur radio.
&I am trying hard to keep at least one picture of you in my heart`s dog-eared album.
What with your English Leathered neck and hands, trips for quartered frozen treats, microwaveable pretzels, &spritzer cookies slightly burned.
Maybe I`ll cry when I ease myself in to the well-worn crackled seats of a classy 911,
or tear up if an overweight terrier greets me in the morning.
Perhaps I`ll fall in love with my children`s children,
the way you did with us.

Deep down in my heart I know that I am a coward,
&yet some how I know that when I am lingering at the edge of my driveway, for the very last time,
I know, I know, I know.
I just know that you`ll be the one there, waiting to pick me up.

sleepy, california.

"I used to think that I knew my way around this town, But I`m all ways getting lost since you`re not around
I never thought that I would say this, but I miss my mom
Even though for all those years we didn`t get along
And when I stop to think about it I guess we were the same: too stubborn to apologize, too filled up on rage

I wish she felt young again, when everything was new
When her father held her hand & said, "There`s nothing you can`t do"

And then I woke up to a phone call right on Christmas day
It said, "Your grandmother is dying in a painful way: her lungs are filling up with fluid even as we speak, the doctor said that if she`s lucky, she`ll make it 'til next week"
I had one last chance to see her right before I moved, but I didn`t end up going, I used some lame excuse

I hope that she`s not scared lying there alone
I hope she hears her husband`s voice, telling her she`s coming home

It`s just Sleepy California, but I just hope they know
It`s just Sleepy California, how much I really care
It`s just Sleepy California, how I want the best for them
It`s just Sleepy California, even though I`m hardly there"

In Summery

[polaroid by Geoffrey Chamis-Jensen]

i think i did not know what to expect from the months between april &september.
whether they would be fast or sluggish or chilly or warm.
i suppose all of these.
i think i did not know what to expect of you at our casita under the Bougainvillea vines.
whether you would visit often or little or drink tea or play games.
i suppose none of these, really.
i think i did not know what to expect from 2,219 x 5,280 feet.
whether they would cry or smirk or well-come me if i could.
i suppose the last one.
i think i did not know what to expect when i traded those cuatro neumáticos para dos neumáticos.
whether i would be pedaling or sweating or proud.
todo tres, you know.
i think i did not know what to expect when i became friends with mamas &papas, esposos y esposas.
whether they would invite me over or rose garden the desk or ignore my humble conversaciones.
i suppose you can figure this one out, easily.
i think i did not know what to expect when i started growing un corazón fiel, dos manos honestas y dos pies pacíficos.
whether my bitterness could disfigure all that faithfullness?
creo que yo todavía pienso de eso.

08-16517

"under street lamps &from behind children`s stories,
we are peering:
we love you.

past concreted streets &scraped knees,
we love you.

with burning hearts &bloodied hands,
we are screaming:
we love you.

under softest blankets &feathered comforters,
whispering:
we love you.

with dirt under our finger nails, tripping over our joy,
we are singing:
we love you.

&me, splashing in to the ocean, after abandoning my only ship,
i am panicking:
i need You!"

9

i found some kiss my face hand creme in golf-cart fifteen today.
it`s the little things, you know.

july third, two thousand seven

"&I dreamed of syrupy fingered innocence, stickers on the car windows, laughing, crying, unbroken circles of families in sundresses & linen pants & camping, fishing & gardening & standing up for the softer ones, & gentleness & scrabble, orange juice, & "have a sunny side up day" notes in lunch boxes, and resting & moving & mattering & selflessness as constant as my mother`s arms, in a world not made for families & black sheeps, but we are these things, and have made it a home, anyway."

on shutting doors &locking them.

i would like to tell you that all is well on the Western front:
what?! with all these warrings &massacres,
you`d think we`d be fine by now.

but i must admit it is harder than before to prematurely return joyously from my gulf-front home.
when i am not quite ready to please all those hungry troops.
when i am not quite ready to give in to the demands of my well-respected army.

&perhaps i will look back and remember that it wasn`t raining that day,
or that it was quiet last night,
or that my bed was very soft.

but perhaps not.
&i think mostly what i am learning is this:
i do not much care for the business-side of growing up.

i want [need] a dog.

(Akira Liwanag / European Pressphoto Agency)

we awoke early this morning, without any encouragement from the sun.
so you followed me around until i was ready to go:
[oh! but you don`t have to deal with the necessities of clothes and under wears and clean teeth!]
"let`s go! let`s go!" you urge.
all right. all right.
it`s the same walk we stride every morning, the same sidewalk you refuse to tread on, the same mailbox you p...well, you know.
&while i am lost, musing over the night`s peculiarities, you snuffle around in the brush, a single purple flower caught on your chin.
but i have grown fond of our quiet adventures, interrupted only by the sounds of morning showers, kiddie pool frollicks, &good intentioned neighbours.
&i am beginning to descry life in a way that no car driver, bicycle pedaler, running footer, or solitary walker ever could.

i still use kid shampoo.

the air tonight was heavy with the traces of a summer that i would never hold: a syrupy, sweet thickness of sticky popsicles and hand-squeezed lemonade that made me instinctively pedal faster, knowing this indulgence was far too rich for me.
families &sidewalks of streets, lazy summer dinners, night-time readings, and bed-time prayers floated just above my head, just past the place where i could comfortably reach-[oh, but if i stretched just a little bit farther...]
&you, with all 99 of your red, hope-filled balloons, reminding me that you`re off soon: to wherever those dreams touch down.
ask me if i`d like to come along for the journey, for company, or just for someone to talk to, perhaps.
but i cannot leave the ground so easily, with that lost summer floating so lackadaisically close to my brain.
&so i instinctively pedal faster and faster, hoping the dust will cover you in my wake.

pt. 2.

"don`t mind the colour, they were all i could find," he explains.

oh, Jose. you are a favourite.

why she`s better than you. [&me]

he delivers babies, too.

black oaks.

"Okay,

not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary, or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance &comfort.
Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays carp &whistle all day in the branches, without the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I`m pale with longing for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen &you can`t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage of their shoulders, &their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don`t you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

&to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don`t want to sell my life for money, I don`t even want to come in out of the rain."

-M.O.

Okay,

the bridge of my nose has a little scrape in it.
[but i don`t mind.]
&i wouldn`t have it any other way.
but it seems that my features, once unabashedly child-like and cool,
have grown warmer, older now, in the papery arms of the coastal suns.
as for today, i can`t think of any thing better than resting my cheek on mama`s tiled kitchen floor, &
maybe humming a little bit.
but, what was that you said? you don`t care about that?
you want to know what i had for lunch?
oh.

i don`t want to let go of the wrists

i liked your teeth & floral print skirt,
&even though my one-bird aviary pales in comparison to your full-fledged menagerie...
hi, [i don`t mind.]
stranger[`s] paths have crossed,
if only for a couple of minutes.
thanks for looking me in the eyes, shaking my hand, &
oops.
how am i going to get my bicycle home, again?

965

some times i wear dirty shirts &shoes, out of forgetfullness.
& why is that man still playing fetch with his doberman on the lawn?

w: "i cut my thumb! look!"
[i look. minor injury.]
a: "i think you`ll survive. do you want a band-aid?"
w: "nah. but you know what?"
a: "no, what?"
w: "i like my grandfather`s hands."
a: "what do you like about them?"
w: "i like that they`re old and cut and wrinkled. it`s because he was in the war. i hope mine look like that some day."
a: "they will."

a plea[se].

a: "i`m special, you know."
b: "yes, i know that."
a: "there aren`t many girls like me out there."
b: "..."
a: "okay, maybe like 99 more."
b: "mmhm."
a: "but that`s not a lot considering our current population predicament, right?"
b: "right."

hoof-picking.

some times i like to go for long gallops on my pride-full horse,
leaving my faithfull trail mare grazing out in the pasture.
[she needs some rest, any way.]
[we never went on that trip, you know.]
&i justify my rompings with reasons even i cannot combat.
well, i lie through my teeth to redeem my wretchedness.

so you depart with your hunting party,
on that expensively gratis stallion.
&while your rifle remains loaded,
poised to murder any unkind intentions,
mine has been leaked of all ammunition,
in a matter of months!

bryce graham

it`s been a quiet day here: too warm to fill my lungs with too many promises for the first day of summer.
you`ll understand eventually, i suppose.

but to night, i can hope for this:
warm food,
yard work,
lemon sorbet,
&faithfullness.

Wish you were here.

90068

&maybe he knows some things we don`t.
like the best ways to celebrate father`s day:
all curled up on poppa daddy`s lap,
with the tiniest fingers wrapper around mama`s grace-filled hands.

wilder street

i can`t tell you why
i chose that sticky, sweet cake
only Opi knows.

administration

don`t tell your wife that
you never wear your wedding
to work on week days.

93030

thirty miles or so
flying with an empty tank
is worth it to me.

heavenly Father,

we bowed our heads in prayer for those younger than we.
i say we, but what i really mean is they.
for up on the stage, my eyes [&attention] were drawn towards a child, backwards facing, peering into the belly of the open piano.
another one approaches, wearing a dress, the colour of red wine.
she, too, is intrigued by the guts of the Baldwin.
&while the curious skins are exploring, I cannot help keeping myself from smiling.
won`t this be what all the angels are conversing about?
"we love You. amen."

93105

"oatmeal sticks to your ribs, you know."
i remember your words at the grocery store, &hurried breakings of fast in the office.
&now i am left to ponder:
are these really the things that have harmed you? is that why you yelp, &squirm &tease me into patting your head every now &then?
does divorce really do that to pre-teen bones?
are you afraid of being a lone in the night?
i am observing you [three] to be sure. &oh! what an interesting sort!
why are these ideas suddenly so intriguing to my mothered&fathered heart?
is this what happens when you date a psychologist?!

genius.

He timidly opens the door &peeks in. He`s wearing this colourful scarf &he introduces himself. "Hi, my name is Jose. I`m going to water the plants for you. It will be a long weekend." I mutter some thing to the effect of 'yes...please...gracias[?]' Jose is my favourite grounds worker, but he`ll never know. &that`s all right. Isn`t it? Is it all right to be favoured ambiguously? Is it all right for me to look just a little bit longer when I see a weathered face in hopes of catching sight of that scarf? "What`s your family like? When was the last time you were home?" What good can come from this innocent faithfullness?

What good comes from a foggy may day? It is colder now than it was this morning. &as I sit comfortably in a climate regulated square...is this my excuse for the state of my heart? Oh! SomeOne teach me what it means to love warmly again!

60.

"A miracle is when the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. A miracles is where one plus one equals a thousand."

what better place?

"Life is grace. Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves. Darkness wipes the slate clean, not spotless to be sure, but clean enough for another day`s chalking." -f.b.

wally.

wally is an australian wombat, &we rescued him from goodwill!
[jackie is a real black cat that we did not adopt from goodwill.]

verão

i hope you can hear me way up [and over] there.
i hope you know that for the first time in a long time i am as a lone as the solitary polar bear,
[or the north wood moose]
but you can be assured that they are not spending their time as i ought:
with tea and meatless hotdogs.
&it`s not so much the fact that you are gone,
but that i must remember what it means to be a little more empty,
an ever-trusting soul,
minus indulgent sprees at the gallery & winning the snake`s mouth.

the foxes.

&no matter how much i talk,
no matter how well i talk,
it`s only stupid talk!
oh! i could not rid myself of you[r words] if the forest`s trees were pens,
&all the oceans filled with ink!

6.

some days i wish you had better hand writing.
&more ways to smile than those upturned corners of your (sometimes) chapped lips.
some days it is too hot to be out of doors,
so i turn off the lights when it becomes dark,
and lie on my bed as helpless as the day i met you, World.
some days i am sorry for the ways i have comforted You.
&wish that i could create a new soul for that mistreated clay.
i tried-wanted-did. honest!
some days i am too busy thinking about the future
to remember what it means to exist.
some days i don`t talk to You.
some days i don`t read Your letters.
some days.
oh! i am certainly sorry for that!

it is good to know that you are out there.

where the grace &simple truth of childhood go.

brian &i went to visit mr. clyde jackson browne last evening at the thousand oaks civic center.
&it was good.

http://www.jrp-graphics.com/jb/apr08.html
April 23, 2008. Thousand Oaks, CA.

whining.

no one lets you yell around here.

no one says "it`s okay" to raise your voice &kick your legs &throw your face in to a pillow.
no one lets you cry because you are exhausted and overworked.
&it was finally starting to grow, to blossom a little white petal,
but you wouldn`t let it.
because every one else is tired too, right?
&that makes it so wrong?

because i don`t want to sing this song any more.

32578.

if you were me &i were you,
i`d tell you what i`d do:
i`d crumble up those silly rules,
&sail right back to you.

j.e.h.

you!
Now,
I do not claim to be an expert on this sort
of music, church, &art;
but you with your rolled &beat up jeans and cap, quietly climb the hill to that place where
on a morning unplanned &traded shirts debut,
we saw you, victorious, Book in hand, and it was good.
Oh, may I learn to listen and not be afraid of seventh generation solidarity in a house of wolves!
Oh! may all that come behind us find us faith-full!

for those who love with too much grace:

I`m jealous of you, you know.
Of your ability to be so innocently honest
to explain to me in paradoxial terms
how difficult it is to be here today.
&oh, how I feel.
Believe me, I know it well.
If the rest of my life was to be spent in this way,
well,
then so be it.
But if I could free--If I could cultivate just one drop, watching it sprout &bloom--I fear I would become the richest child in that paltry kingdom!

Oh! to want one thing!
[Purity of heart]

48.

"Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see some thing of God each hour of the twenty-four, &each moment then,
In the faces of men &women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, &every one is sign`d by God`s name,
&I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe'er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever." -Walt Whitman

été.

i`m going to start writing more.
i`m going to call home more often, &ask my dad how his day went.
i`m going to show diana, &sarah, &elise that i love them tangibly.
i don`t know how yet, but i`m going to do it.
i`m going to be a faith full pen pal writer, &keep using my mama`s college typewriter.
i`m going to go to bed earlier, and wake up feeling more a live than usual.
i`m going to start listening to good music again.
i`m going to listen to the same album over &over, for as long as i want.
i`m going to take thought-filled, intentional walks in the hills.
i`m going to go trail running or leaping or bounding.
i`m going to converse with children, in hopes of improving my vocabulary.
i`m going to study the elders, in hopes of gaining wisdom.
i`m going to start being a good steward of my money.
i`m not going to worry about it. [i think that`s a good start.]
i`m going to live more simply.
i`m learning to love Y(?)ou more.

on pitching &throwing

i think it is salubrious to fit &tantrum every once in a while.
there is more to do these days than seems human[e]ly possible,
so we throw our hands up in a flustered surrender
&grope for coloured paper, pencils, pillows...any thing really.
scattering them around, page by page, colour by colour-
until the whole floor is decorated in to a perfectly peacefull mess.

&then we go back to saving the world.

6499.

oh! but we don`t have time for this!

The Summer Day, Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don`t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn`t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

1837:

do not think i have written you off, all ready.
or reduced you to mainstream sports and greasy foods.
don`t you remember when we rode our bicycles for fun?
or broke in our summer skin by the swimming pool?
remember how when i woke up in the morning, there was a third easter basket on the hearth?
&the times we petted those furry babies, just because we could?
certainly, you could not have all ready forgotten!
there is more to you than i think.
there is more to you than even you think.
but do not fret,
He &i...well...you see,
me &Him...we`re not quite finished with you yet.

pour a little salt, we were never here.

i don`t know what to tell you, really.
of how to relay what laps i have run, [oh! the distances these feet have walked!]
&you expect to receive my gifts wrapped up neatly in butcher paper, tied with strawy twine?
i cannot speak to that.

of pigeons, people, &pretty, fine things.
of night time wanderers, metros, &cobbled streets.
of day-long flyings, &airport wanderings, and finally coming home [?] where is that again?
of short sleeps, bicycle rides, chlorinated swimming pools, ping pong tables &soft hearts.

yes!
i forgot what it is like to have two hands and feet,
we need to be reminded.
but i doubt you could ever know what i truely mean.

of pigeons, people, &pretty, fine things.

X.

"There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of themselves in various styles, from the desperate to the sheepish; but there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only of men, but of all intelligent mammals, even of women. It is a beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischief--a beauty with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you." -George Eliot

l.a.h.

for jane, for ever ago.

for old-fashioned television sets
salt water fish tanks,
&enough tableware to feed our humble army.
for sheep dogs,
brilliantly blue eyes
gentle voices &honest truths,
brand new ovens
&Jen's prints on every wall.
soy sauce and mushrooms,
apple tostada &tea.
&you.
you, all the while
breathing thanks with every syllable,
eyes that have seen so many things;
but you listen patiently, any way.

d.l.s.

there was some thing about you last evening,
it was just, just...
what was it again, exactly?
there has been some thing about you,
for these past years now, even.

i couldn`t help but think on you &me

then you, you were up there,
unrecognizable, dressed in things you do not wear
but i could still read you,
like the oldest of stories,
&my favourite ticking clock of a book.

you flew back down to meet me, [you all ways do, you know]
smiling and thanking me for thinking of you

oh! the beauty &wisdom that seeps out of your weathered, faith full soul!
&my heart
like a forlorn wanderer,
that has stumbled upon such a peregrine oasis!

IX.

when i saw you for the better part of the day, the sun was all ready beginning to rest.
but you had so many things to do while she was awake,
i didn`t mind. &i still don`t!
you are afraid i will get lost in your lack of difference,
of beach town alfredos,
&home town desserts,
of breaking mountain passes,
&seeing a life more hope-filled than you or I?
oh, but i have grown to love those vagabondish wanderings
in the constancy of your heart,
&good intentions foiled,
swiss army knives forgotten,
&baby bobcats bounding across our paths!

lisa scandrette.

there`s something to be said about a woman like you.
there`s something to be said about the lady who has been adventuring for so long, since so young.
there`s something to be said about the trust of rejoicing when mark speaks to college-aged students.
&highschoolers.
&middleschoolers.
there`s something to be said about quiet confidence, &living in a greater wholeness, than the author himself(?)!
i met you once.
i don`t exactly know what i expected from you.
you seemed happily content, supervising the stew &tomato dicing.
we exchanged no words, even.
perhaps a knowing glance. once.
what was it about you, then?
what is it that is so freely able to sidle up next to another beating heart, &say, "yes, yes, this. this is living."
what is it in you that dances so harmoniously to the chords of the Holy Spirit?
what is it about your spirit, as eager as a child`s, that says,
"yes, Lord! oh! pick me! pick me!"

please pick me, then too, sweet Jesus.

93108

I hear a train moaning in the distance, &I woke up this morning in a sweat, peeled off my soaking tee, &lay quietly under covers too heavy for this weather. "Must`ve sweated out that fever," I thought to myself.
I don`t get sick often. Or at least I don`t admit it when I am.
But today. Today, I am sick. I am easily whelmed over &take every comment personally. I curl up inside of myself and listen to Bon Iver`s For Emma, For Ever Ago. I pretend that I am grown up &will live in an apartment somewhere, and maybe work two jobs, &share meals with a roommate or two. I think that college doesn`t prepare me for what`s next as well as they say it does. I`m finding the beginning of wisdom starts by loving others. I don`t know if it`s worth it quite yet. I`d like to think so. I really would.
"I`m not a fan of danger," she says.
There will be more than just falling a sleep this time.

8.

&the way He looks so tenderly at me through the glass of an imperfect soul!
oh! how my heart aches for the ventricles it has lost!

seven:

i want to hear little baby coughs
&puppies so excited that they puddle on the floor
&wrapping an old ticking clock in a warm blanket
so you feel closer to your mama`s beating heart
and the neighbourhood that is home.
oh, what to do with this curious in-be-tween?

for time i have wasted.

amphibians are croaking outside of my windows.
&you ran to me [really!] in the earlier hours of the day.
it sort of makes me wish i was just at home on rocky shores drive.
it sort of makes me want to walk our dogs down the dusky streets, &take the short cut back.
it sort of makes me want to call a friend &have a solid conversation.
it sort of makes me grate full that i can go to sleep after eight tonight.
it sort of makes me want to grow up.
but then again,
it sort of makes me want to fly.

my passport came today.

He catches me off guard
&it gets me every time.
turn the knob
push open the wood,
&there it is.
bathing my room in an ethereal glow.

six

&what does it mean when you spend too much time with one person,
& not enough with a nother,
but you don`t really mind that much at all?

pages turning

1. read 52 books, [in addition to the Old Testament].
2. start growing up.