My life with a gardener

The screen door firecrackers closed. 
I find her at the sundry drawer 
prowling for twine. I’m nothing 
she sees. There’s a tornado 
in her hair, her face is streaked 
with dirt like markings applied 
before the rituals of drums.
I’ve watched her shadow break free 
and tend the next row of corn. 
I understand this eagerness 
as fully as I can speak for the ocean. 
I say water is behind everything, 
a blue dictator, say waves 
are obsessed with their one word 
but have no idea what that word is. 
Her hands enter soil like needles 
making the promise of a dress 
from cloth. In December she begins 
smelling lilacs, by February 
she sees the holes 
peppers burn through snow. I see her, 
she’s the last green thing I need. 
When finally she’s pushed inside 
by the rude hands of dusk, 
I set down my life for her skin, 
taught all day how to smell 
like the sun, and the hundred 
directions of her hair, and eyes 
that look through me to flowers 
that only open their mouths 
to speak with the moon.

Bob Hicok


Frying Trout While Drunk

Mother is drinking to forget a man
who could fill the woods with invitations:   
come with me he whispered and she went   
in his Nash Rambler, its dash
where her knees turned green
in the radium dials of the 50’s.
When I drink it is always 1953,
bacon wilting in the pan on Cook Street   
and mother, wrist deep in red water,   
laying a trail from the sink
to a glass of gin and back.
She is a beautiful, unlucky woman
in love with a man of lechery so solid   
you could build a table on it
and when you did the blues would come to visit.   
I remember all of us awkwardly at dinner,   
the dark slung across the porch,
and then mother’s dress falling to the floor,   
buttons ticking like seeds spit on a plate.   
When I drink I am too much like her—   
the knife in one hand and the trout  
with a belly white as my wrist.   
I have loved you all my life
she told him and it was true
in the same way that all her life
she drank, dedicated to the act itself,   
she stood at this stove
and with the care of the very drunk   
handed him the plate.

Kearney Park. July 2014




A quick day trip to the beach was much needed.

Downtown photo adventures with Colby.
Arson, bikes, and a whole lot of that central valley sunlight

Some things never change.

Fierce Creatures. May | 2014


Your garland, my shaky lamb,

we are close in this
slow evening gown,

we are growing down,
our winter-slung bodies fooled
and necklaced with furious morning

—Brenda Shaughnessy, from “Lure, Lapse

Read last night for the 2014 issue of the San Joaquin Review. So grateful to be a part of this journal filled with talented local artists.

You know what’s strange? Taking senior portraits of your 18 year old brother, and how looking at these makes that part of me want to keep him all the more. To not wear our father’s shoes and sew himself into a barrel of a rifle. The part that wants to show him the clearest answer that war is a succession, a bloody money battle and to convince him of an independent life outside of violence, for the first time. What is left to prove to the man who raised you that chose to bring the fighting back with him? To maybe become stronger than he ever could be. To come back a little shaken, but the roots unchanged, shielding a nature I have always known. I’ll write pensive letters. I’ll wish upon a quiet eyelash. 

I like the feeling of words doing as they want to do and as they have to do.

Gertrude Stein, from Selected Writings of Gertrude Stein (Random House, 1946)

(via lifeinpoetry)

Call your mother. Tell her you love her. Remember you’re the only person who knows what her heart sounds like from the inside.

We must not allow other people’s limited perceptions to define us.

Virginia Satir (via abstractnumbers)

(via abstractnumbers)

Bedroom light


#light  #bedroom  #male  #female  #sleep  #bed  #blankets  #feet  

http://fluttering-slips.tumblr.com/post/78768066009/aftermath-some-days-i-am-a-machine-gun-of ›



Some days I am a machine gun
of apologies and gratitude,

an automatic weapon of regret
and sincerity and when the smoke 

clears in the firing range
of our kitchen, your ears

ringing with vows
that it will never happen

again, I am the sound
of a hammer chattering

against the hollow
chamber of my promise.

I am every calibered casing
marked I’m sorry, forgive me,

I didn’t mean it.
Every brass thimble

of thank you and thank you 
and thank you, scattered

on the tile floor where we hold
each other, swear nothing

has changed, and kiss
cartridges into the empty

magazines of our mouths.

Nathan Landau
Rattle 43