Weather + Hitchhikers

Portland is cold but pending. The air feels as if the city waits beneath an avalanche. Like the cold could set loose any minute or the cold could remain on an inaccessible shelf for one hundred more years. My survival instinct is live and my energy is amped up to not be defeated by the outdoors. There is an amount of self destructive risk I enjoy. How far can I go in the cold. My body is not made of glass, a mantra that is repeated in my head, but also not made of steel. After the start of the year, the trauma of Bambi being bit, the recovery, there is this gap in me where my emotions drained out of, an empty cistern or sylex awaiting the next sacrifice to activate it. That empty bowl feels too drained to perform its magic. One cannot keep rubbing the lamp and expecting the genie to appear every time. Perhaps the bowl is as cold as the weather. Maybe I need to gather kindling, spark a small fire, heat the bowl and the air, inhale the hot air, feel myself expand, warmed, and float off to what is next.

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

Tiny Dish

Your bitter snap of cold to the touch
what wishes could you grant me
what spirit could possess me
with twigs gathered by field mice
in your mouth I build a pyre
big enough to fit in my palm
through the drizzle of smoke
I sing my wishes

⚬ ⚬ ⚬ ⚬ ⚬

We Pick Up Hitchhikers

In winter, in the heat of a snowstorm
the vents of the old pickup heaving
on the freeway, in a leather trenchcoat
shuffling along the side of the emergency lane

Don’t you dare
I can’t not, he’s walking in a blizzard

When the tires bed into the snow bank
we’re unsure if we will ever escape

She climbs in the back with us
He shakes off his coat and climbs in the front

Just ten minutes of small talk
then he climbs out at the next gas station

Now when snowfall blankets my morning
I push out my neighbors cars
When I come inside, fingers needled and tingling,
grabbing tightly to the curve of a warm mug
the world feels more level and more understood

Shells + Sonnet

Oh shell, oh comfort, oh quiet safety, how I’ve drawn into you recently. How I’ve carried you, home, for my entire life but dragged more as a kite tail across the globe. Now I’ve found you after years, still on my back, still with the right amount of space for me to snug into. Now I know you, I miss you, and want to return always to you even as I travel, even with you with me on my back. I cannot wait to come home.

▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲

We beg do not go out into the cold
Stay home, inside away from window drafts
Sit still and watch the wind outside go past
Your world is here, away from the unknown
Trust us, nothing waits out there, stay home.
My breath frosts over faces and glass
The draft does find my wrist and clasps
Tightly, still they swear on the world they’ve shown.

But a world away the conifers laugh,
drizzled and dancing soft in the moon beams.
Letting the rivers roar cover my tracks,
I move my life westward through field and stream.
Sweet Pacific, accept my aftermath,
wash my feet in your sea and let me dream.

Coffee Ode + Flight Delays

Traveling again, I could live in an airport. The momentum feels so good. I’m in and out of San Francisco in a single day. Today will be a very long, single day. Hopefully my pockets will be lined with the momentum I feel in the wheels of every piece of luggage that is pulled past, moving hurriedly to another destination.

⭘ ⭘ ⭘ ⭘ ⭘

Contentment in the Coffee Cup
an ode to the only safe place
that unabashedly accepts
all my troubles in a way
I imagine the local corner
bar consoles the regulars
who feel a sense of
greatness but is left
in squander.

▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲

THE POWERS THAT BE

Fly into San Francisco for a day of meetings, they said

Sure, I can wake up at 5am to catch that flight, I said

Good morning sir, headed to the airport, they said

Keep your sweater on, laptop stays in the bag, they said

Large black coffee coming up, if you could sign this receipt, they said

Attention passengers, air traffic control is holding the plane, they did not provide additional details, passengers to Tampa this will not affect you and you will be able to stay on the plane at your transfer, if you are flying to Newark we are attempting to hold your connecting flight for you, I’m going to need Cobb party of three to come see me at the podium, everyone else the flight will be delayed an hour an a half, they said

Sonnet Lines + Form

We beg do not go out into the cold

stay here inside away from window drafts

sit still and watch the breeze outside go past

trust us that nothing waits out there, stay home

Your world is here away from the unknown

The window frosts from my breath on the glass

a draft grabs at my wrist tightly wound clasp

the truth we sear they yell is what we’ve shown

⭘ ⭘ ⭘ ⭘ ⭘

Form is almost a nice distraction from trying to write from a place I know I should visit but don’t want to be. This sonnet is coming along, I’m excited for the last 6 lines, to write the twist and stage an escape.

Sea Work + Sonnet Lines

My mornings are consumed. the Wall of water that is my work day has begun to crash backwards. As I stand on the deck of my ship, out a sea, expecting to watch a storm make landfall, the air ceases & the bottom drops out of the ocean. No near water can avoid the ripple and so I do not get to simply come to dock after the rain. I am forced to fight against a force unbottleable for another chance tomorrow to try to enjoy the calm rock of the sunrise, I survive.

□ □ □ □ □

They beg do not go out into the cold

stay warm inside away from window drafts

let each cautionary degree go past

falling. low receding into the known

Nothing waits, shell up, stay home.

Scales + Winter

“her warm laughter saying nobody is ever betrayed, darling, nobody ever dies.” - Being Geniuses Together pg 340

Weighted scale that clangs heavy on the table with tragedy and shock. Heavy so that nails break and splinter trying to pry the plate up from the wood. Gouges in the table top where the desperation is pooled. Then one morning, across the table the air moves around the neck of the scale, the chains sway, and the plates sit level again. There is a calm call of the daylight, gentle so that we may sit at the table again. Living around the scale without the anticipation or expectation of anything other than what is on the table now. Living with no mind towards the weighty plates, paying no homage for we remember now the pointlessness in asking.

△ △ △ △ △

Winter thoughts:
Grass that cracks beneath our shoes
White gray scaled tone of the world outside
Frigidness between where we are the warmth of where we will be
Standing watching my breath waiting for a walk signal
Scabbed piles of snow over the curbs onto the lawns

Beach + Sea Glass

Kathryn Dreams of the Beach

Up and down the shoreline
along the wet traced line of the tide
beeping
beep beeping
Scanning the sand in a circle
The rain from the night before
pushed bits of the life we don’t need
towards the shore
She find them, the bits
beep beep
beep beep beeping
Swinging across the sand
a steady metronome against the waves
Fingers dig into the rain marked sand
until she finds sea glass
hazy but clean smooth and clearly
diamonds
and she drops them into a can
attached at her hip
twinkling

Transformers + Outage

In the house where the transformers blew regularly. A deep pop from the far side of the block and we were powerless. Left in the dark, stumbling cautiously letting the patter of rain drops be a brail guide to our ears. The gas stove sustaining us at meal time. Sometimes only a minute, sometimes hours, a few times days, some time in the house where the transformers blew regularly and found the routine. How quickly you did not need power, a calmness without the humble buzzing of the fridge. Shifting to analog, to paper pages or decks of cards. Gathering near the candle light, uncertain where the shadows are cast. When the transformers blew we became neighbors, on the steps looking out between the sideways windwhipped rain for the culprit. Then shrugging and waving ourselves back inside, into our dark homes, to be quiet and wait for power.

Desperate + Pleading

I return. The world is busy, life is distracting, motivation is hard in between the pressures and excitement of the end of the year and the holidays.

Ultimately the last five days have been miserable. Christmas eve Bambi was attacked by a larger dog. Christmas evaporated into the background from our worry. Worry doesn’t feel heavy enough of a word to describe my emotions. What is worry but not hysterics? It was difficult keeping the spirit of Christmas amidst the chaos that is Bambi’s life on the line. There may be no truer test of faith I’ve faced in my life than coming home from the ER, leaving Bambi, to our lit up house, to sit across from our stubby tree, surrounded with gifts, and asking fate to guide Bambi back to me. Tomorrow she may come home, I cannot wait.

□ □ □ □ □

Screaming silently, into
hard packed snow
at the top of my lungs
Come what may come
but do so in a roar
do not leave me
in a cold open door
asking what if someone knocks

○ ○ ○ ○ ○

I’ve not often plead out loud. In 8th grade I wrote horrible harassing letters to a girl in my class for months. When the whole situation came to light, my parents were called, I remember sitting at our computer desk, being told my dad would find out when he came home, and banging my head against the desk until a small kiwi sized bump formed on my forehead. With each thump I remember asking why I would do what I did. In that desperate moment I was asking for clarity of the past, asking for an explanation. I felt like I should understand my actions, I made them, I wanted to comprehend my responsibility but needed someone to show me. When I plead out loud for Bambi to come home I did not need understanding. I plead with only an ask of action, no matter how, no need to understand. That ask came from a place I’ve never visited, desperation.

Guesting + Waking

The quietness of waking up a guest in someone’s house. The soft floating from kitchen to bathroom while they rest. The gentlest door knob turn praying the spring hinge doesn’t creak too loudly. You are dropped into this box of a house and unavoidably disturb the flow. When you wake there’s this moment of opportunity to greet the space yourself, to explore the corners and stand in the middle of the rooms, away from the walls, and synchronize your breath as the heat kicks on and the vents exhale onto your head. Around your ankles the house begins to move, the air pushes dust bunnies who are curious, following you through the hallways.

Transit + Bar Seat

The anonymity in being in a transit hub. Like dipping into the edge of a whirlpool only to have the momentum fling you out in an undetermined direction instead of sucking swirling you down. You will get to where you are going as long as you do not try to find a seat at the bottom of the whirlpool.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○

The tiny watch chained with bits of gold
and you announce your tequila choices confidently
Real gold, mismatched to the rest of your rings
The bartender moans in pleasure
taste ghosting her lips of a shot
You slam your phone between sips
The thin chain on your tiny watch tinkles
the links colliding with the marble bar top
You call the bartender by name
she does not do the same.

Cities + Guests

A portrait of _______
To be cured(? I can’t read my own handwriting) of a place today feels impossible. That connectedness of ourselves dilutes the uniqueness of the cities that house us. We welcomed the world at our borders with open arms and took everything that came through wholly in our mouths to be chewed and mashed together. What spectacular tastes did we meet. What attempt at escape did we dissolve for now there is only one place, with everyone, with every city corner. You can find everything here except a way out. Perhaps the art we create is the resistance, the portal out of a boxed in world, a way out to the outside of a single city.

□ □ □ □ □

The empty wall feels as though we walked in on the middle of a move. Dust traces the edges of missing frames. No one calls out to the missing pictures or inquires where they disappeared to. The glasses are mix matched. None have a complete set. The guests are the same, mismatched and incomplete.

Old Homes + Restoration

I’m spending too much time looking at the cheap old homes instagram account and trying to rationalize making poor choices.

Quiet walls, proud and uncalling
for the restoration they need
The paint color in the foyer
is peeling
Every part of you is shrinking
curling towards the kitchen
and the orchard outside creeps closer
calling “look look how I’ve grown”

Fat Kid Spiderman + Traveling

A fat kid in a spiderman shirt

I don’t know why that, of all things from flying to and from San Francisco this week, that is what sticks in my mind. This illusion of the hero, the contrast between the acrobatics of spiderman and the weight of this kid. How we attach ourselves to stories that are so outside ourselves to live through the reality of today. The sense of escapism inside an airport, a place with the main function of leaving, sending you off.

Words of the act of departing are pretty interesting. So much connotation is put into a single word. They tell a whole story of everything before and everything to come after.

Discovery + Prompts

Creative Morning with Maggy Navin of Regarding Dew

Prompt 1: make a list of 5 parts of your surrounding (then pick the third one and write on that)
1. buzz of the heater
2. record player
3. dent in the wall
4. coffee table
5. flower picture

Little patch trying to hide
to fit inside the thick gouge
left from the bike handle bars
as they moved through the house
You will never blend in entirely
Little patch but you are full
and smooth and unassuming so you
may in the best way be missed by guests
Little patch you live in the back
of the mind, a soft reminder of
a kick stand. More you proclaim
like the path of a glacier
that change happened here
in this hallway.
Little patch your painted face
does not color correct
to the wall around you, over toned
and bright during the afternoons
you stand out screaming
In twilight through
the golden hour saves you
absorbs you and brings you
to the whole.

⭘ ⭘ ⭘ ⭘ ⭘

Prompt 2: “for the fun of it”

The carelessness of the plane -
uncontrolled, only our choice
to buy the ticket and board
was made and now 30,000 feet
above offices and highways and parks and shops
we can breathe deep and enjoy
the teeny tiny stale pretzels without
the ability to bring a bag
that would fit in the overhead bin
People around us are dressed for business
while we laugh at the mostly broken
latch on the fold up table tray
We even cheat on the clock
skipping ahead to land bright
eyed in the future state
of Minneapolis

Walls + Falling

Of the secrets in walls
People talk
but the carpet’s
fibers soaked with secrets
the stories lie flat
while guests step on them
beneath the carpet
on the underside
the dark stains of climactic moments

△ △ △ △ △

Stumbling —
The feeling of pushing nothing
The break of the expecatation
The lack of repelling resistance
The shock of momentum
The loss of stability
The fear of uncertainty
The grasp of hope
The slip of feet
some how moving backwards
The space of the air
parting the grabbing hands
The paddle of shoulders
swimming forward
The feeling of betrayal
at your own self
at what you pushed
at your lack of coordination
and your trust in what was coming

What I’ve Read - November ‘22

OCTOBER, spookiness is in the air. Portland was bizarrely warm for most of the month and my mind didn’t shift out summer probably until the last week. Now I’m living in rain, inside, off my bike, trying to push through the dark mornings and early evenings. Spent a lot of the month watching scary movies which definitely cut into reading time.

THE CHECK IN

My practice has slipped a little, I’ve been sleeping in more. Coming off a generative program, I always want a moment to breathe before diving back in. I think I have breathed deeply and need to tighten down a show up. I think a lot about Yoga with Adrienne and her approach to encouraging viewers who probably aren’t hardcore yoga people. She often congratulates you for showing up to your mat and to your practice. I aim to treat writing the same way, step one is showing up. My submission list is drying up (only 2 open subs right now one of which is from January) and I think filling that out with 3-5 subs per piece I like is an achievable goal before the end of the year. I’m also looking at other channels besides submittable, which is wonderful for managing subs, but I feel like twitter and instagram are both constantly showing me journals and presses that I miss on submittable’s search.

THE SHORT LIST

Being Geniuses Together (1920-1930) - Robert McAlmon / Kay Boyle (still, read about this book in my last update)
Of Love and Pain - Rachel Duvall
All the Months in December - Allison Lee Riechman-Bennett
an arduous blooming - Loren Ivester

** These last three are all chaps available through Bottlecap Press **

THE BOOKS

Of Love and Pain - Rachel Duvall

Of Love and Pain snowballs emotion from the first page. Grief and love are often what connect us as people and reading a single poem touching on those emotions is sometimes dismissible. Rachel Duvall gets to the core of those emotions and yanks the reader in the pit of those feelings. the crowning achievement of this chap is how complete it feels. At the end, it felt as if I’ve taken a journey, from one cliff to the cliff on the otherside.

---

All the Months in December - Allison Lee Riechman-Bennett

What a title, when I saw this chap I was angry at how good of a title it has. The shell of what the cold months feel like is encapsulated in these pages so well. There’s a sense of survival between the pieces and an undertone of overcoming the space cold weather and cold emotions make. As a writer, I always appreciate a piece that speaks to writing and love this bit from a piece titled Limes":

”Poets do not write of all the moments writing feels arresting, / but the bittered limes sit on the Sunday table, moving to waves of bells in the morning wind.”

---

an arduous blooming - Loren Ivester

There’s a romanticism between all four sections of Loren Ivester’s an arduous blooming. Each piece felt like biting a piece of cake and trying to pinpoint ingriedents. There’s also a delightful sense of self-awareness that I could follow as a reader. Each piece wrapped nicely with a sense of enlightenment and left me with a feeling of being deeper in touch with part of myself. When I revisit this chap it would not be surprising to find something new and resonate in every additional read.

---

Cream Cheese + Castles

The sarcophagus of cream cheese
peeled open unleashing what
spirits slept brooding

Ages of a lifetime in weeks
the body inside recumbent
and twisted, spread uneven
and tapped taxidermy shapeless

Green growing in the corners
crusted white alien origin
spreading, animated
remains left to bloat and
push on the foil edges

What curse befalls me
having broken this seal
what haunt will follow
unusable but tempting
the open cream cheese

⭘ ⭘ ⭘ ⭘ ⭘

Prompt: Castle

Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick
ick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Br
Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Window Brick Brick Brick
ick Brick Window Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Br
Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick Brick
Tower Tower Brick Brick Brick Tower Tower
er Tower Tow er Tower Tow
Tower Tower Tower Tower
er Prin Tow er Noth Tow
Tow cess er Tow ing er
Tower Tower Tower Tower
To w er To w er

Inside the castle, you will come to a path where two stairwells diverge. What you seek is in a tower. These stairwells will take you on your path. When you reach the tower you will rise from this upside down castle, back to the surface, with what you need for your journey, what you didn’t have. Choose wisely, see inside yourself, pick your path.

South Dakota + Bemis

where the grass was tall
dead and brown tipped from the sun
trying in the damnedest
to whip your calves

rail lines stretch out
horizon to horizon
uncovered as if an artifact
proof of a going from here to there

everyone is a ghost
rising from the hard cold novemeber ground
to hear the horses whining wild
as the moon rises

▲ ▲ ▲ ▲ ▲

Bemis

with our white hairs sprouting up
you feel weighted in my arms
not burdened heavy but full
oh gentle prince
the fervor of your bark carries you
jumping with all four legs as you speak
saying to the neighborhood I am here
here I am
the wispy rhythm of your snores
come opposite the beside clock’s tick tick
and our white hairs age us together
through the night, every night.

Misdemeanor + Speedometer

Misdemeanor is such a soft word. Filled with curves like the back highways in Autumn. Lulling you through the syllable count with the dips and rises of the m’s and n. The uncertain boundaries of the word can just dip off the road, blend with the woods and colors leaving only a blurry sense of how serious this could be.

□ □ □ □ □

A third faulty speedometer ticket. When the judge called my name you stood behind me, a walled shadow of support. although the judge had just explained to the last dad that if your son is over the age of 18 they cannot be accompanied by an adult into the courtroom. the judge repeated himself to you. Your hands were folded and you quickly explained your fault in the matter. Politely the judge listened, nodded, and you sat back down. So I stood with no shadows as my faults were discussed. I made promises of college, of leaving the state, of parking my car and never letting it be seen again. I left the courtroom with a faulty speedometer ticket, my speedometer worked just fine. As we left, you walked behind me again with a pride as if in the light of the judge’s bench I had shown some brilliance.