tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-255507832024-03-14T08:07:35.351+00:00The Least Weird Person I KnowA qualitative search for normalityEHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-64037123892191548602011-01-15T12:27:00.000+00:002011-01-15T12:27:57.725+00:00Dispel The WhoopingI got up and did not sleep.<br />
<br />
Rather than lie there<br />
Listening to your<br />
Crouping coughs<br />
Through the long night.<br />
<br />
Hours ago, I closed the doors,<br />
Ran downstairs<br />
To not hear you.<br />
Sleeping through your<br />
Own weakness.<br />
I could not<br />
For my own.<br />
<br />
What takes on the grating angst<br />
And cures a broken wing<br />
What fears a long night ending<br />
And a longer weekend not?<br />
<br />
Who says: You are perfect<br />
Even when the mind's echoes titter?<br />
Who believes that tomorrow<br />
Will bring the rise of the sun<br />
And spring against the<br />
Cynicism of the frozen snowbanks?<br />
<br />
Against the 3 a.m. doubts<br />
I leaned my weary old self<br />
So that when the morning came<br />
I could be your steady warrior again.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-29316920016881181402010-07-08T14:23:00.002+01:002010-07-08T14:27:29.413+01:00Bug Off<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.holy-basil.com/mediac/400_0/media/Holy%7EBasil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.holy-basil.com/mediac/400_0/media/Holy%7EBasil.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>I made the video but did not <br />
Notice until I played back and<br />
Listened, really,<br />
To the recorded device embedded<br />
In that twisted hardware,<br />
That birds sang to me<br />
A luscious soundtrack.<br />
<br />
My mind munched at the days'<br />
Spectacle, tumbling<br />
Moments disconnected from<br />
The reality of the now.<br />
I forgot to swat<br />
The mosquito so he<br />
Ate well.<br />
<br />
Earwigs had to be soaped up,<br />
Dispelled from the garden, <br />
So that for an evening,<br />
We could eat our pesto in peace.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-62715409050762000752010-03-11T01:51:00.004+00:002010-03-11T02:02:25.724+00:00It breaks youTo see your life<br />Scrawled out in wet ink <br />In the referreed journals<br />Of someone else's trophy case.<br /><br />To see her well-tended garden<br />of poems neatly arranged by year <br />published, soil you composted<br />and left fallow for anyone else to love.<br /><br />To listen to the thump of<br />Validating bass notes from her<br />low-slung guitar she learned to <br />strum because she wanted to, so she did<br />And practice didn't make perfect but it made something.<br /><br />it breaks you to know you're nothing<br />because you're lazy, and because <br />law & order used you,<br />and because you stopped and scolded the tumbleweed<br />When she let it blow on through.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-67200422135429733592010-02-22T13:35:00.004+00:002010-02-22T13:58:23.109+00:00Remarks for a Nomad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB4hCqby7132xgf6Ms3Lr3EGPxyLN2Hb9YfDJ6gTQwoXkdplchLzP4Kp21PraEB6CDwi24-2GPaOrCJOPodjbGrXV566LlitXqzzWvRmQCBrSgpJ7PCSaZpowFITTZTAX2mBEa/s1600-h/banana+3c.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB4hCqby7132xgf6Ms3Lr3EGPxyLN2Hb9YfDJ6gTQwoXkdplchLzP4Kp21PraEB6CDwi24-2GPaOrCJOPodjbGrXV566LlitXqzzWvRmQCBrSgpJ7PCSaZpowFITTZTAX2mBEa/s200/banana+3c.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441064355969006114" border="0" /></a><br />Rita packed sandals and pens<br />And left the world on a Tuesday.<br /><br />Into no-man's land, where<br />Ethnicity is rain clouds<br />And wealth is counted in<br />Hammock-swaying minutes.<br /><br />Ballooning stomachs and<br />Heaving spider masses tramp behind<br />Her on a path broken by<br />Feet bare and worthy of a day's bread.<br /><br />Into Maori candlelit concerts<br />And stranger's cars, void of concern<br />She strolls away again, and again,<br />From Bali love and American packaging.<br /><br />Rita packs a scarf and heavy boots<br />And walks into the world.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-36841829848485752672010-02-17T15:46:00.002+00:002010-02-17T16:02:48.555+00:00All That is Hidden<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img4.myhomeideas.com/i/2008/new/1183413_before_xl.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 341px;" src="http://img4.myhomeideas.com/i/2008/new/1183413_before_xl.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Some nights--<br />We catch the search lights<br />Like fireflies. They are stuffed into<br />Spaghetti sauce jars, the broken beams<br />Squinting through a punched out<br />Metal lid.<br /><br />A twisted Norwegian maple<br />Breaks the sunlight<br />Over our heads--<br />If we laugh, the rubber<br />Tire interrupts us,<br />Slams against the<br />Breast of her trunk<br />To remind us where we are.<br /><br />All her tiny, nonsensical babble<br />Is a trip wire to last night's<br />Dreams, shooting up through<br />Us, like eel shocks. Still<br />We wade in deeper, and lay back<br />Letting the leeches suck on.<br /><br />Green slime clings to<br />The white siding of our lives--<br />Still, and yet,<br />Our meadow hearts desire<br />An acid solution.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-23886037480074535742009-09-15T14:41:00.002+01:002009-09-15T15:04:08.224+01:00Questions for a GirlfriendSweetie I don't have to know what you see,<br />When he turns his baseball hat ghetto-sideways.<br />I don't need to know<br />how you met, or the<br />circumstances of seduction that, anyway, become<br />Like a math equation to someone not there.<br />I won't ask you, lovely, what he said the first time,<br />That made your stomach flutter...<br />Because that is a language that does not<br />translate to anyone else.<br /><br />Candied heart friend of mine, I don't need to know<br />about date one or two or three, or whichever one<br />Tipped you both into the pool of forever, after that long<br />Friendship the two of you shared.<br /><br />Instead, would you mind, angel light, whispering to me<br />The secret of the comforted glow you carry?<br />I'd like to borrow a bottle or two of your joy and also<br />One of your kindness, which isn't yours solely,<br />But a table tennis match between you.<br /><br />Chocolate dipped heart of mine, when I watch you rage<br />sweetly over the daily frustrations, I am not seeing<br />Funnel clouds or hurricane sweeps .<br />I am seeing the hard-work-nest you and your love<br />Have built together, the cozy where you three settle in together<br />In times alone and perfect,<br />where the noise of life is<br />Breath and giggle and bare feet<br />on the wood floor.<br /><br />And then I want to ask:<br />may I borrow your blueprint?EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-19791191445568546932009-07-21T19:34:00.003+01:002009-07-21T19:43:46.487+01:00Where Paradise Begins<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.forgotten-ny.com/STREET%20SCENES/cheyenne/saari.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 154px;" src="http://www.forgotten-ny.com/STREET%20SCENES/cheyenne/saari.jpg" alt="Paradise Grill" border="0" /></a><br />She walked slowly, putting a heel in front of a<br />Toe, and when she arrived to the corner<br />She asked the man who was waiting there--<br />The one who wore too much aftershave-- if he knew<br />Where to find Paradise Grill, and she<br />Described the place before he had a chance<br />To answer. "The vinyl booths are red,<br />But not just red... the stars shine from the<br />Seats and above the counter, there's a<br />Small train that travels from here to there,<br />Stopping only to pick up, deliver your<br />Frosty beverage. And each table is its own<br />Jukebox island, with "Love Me Tender" spinning<br />Here and Jailhouse Rock over there, where<br />The couple is eating and listening, and not<br />Speaking, but not because they don't love each<br />Other anymore." And she smiled,<br />Because it was the place in the question to<br />Do so, and he shook his head, because it was<br />The answer apropos, and she nodded, "Thank you<br />Anyway" and crossed into the road, without looking.<br />The light was in her favor.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-38570196843799451532009-06-11T14:41:00.005+01:002009-06-11T18:52:43.420+01:00I am Stealing You<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/LIFPOD/983846%7EBritish-Children-Playing-Outdoor-Games-in-London-Suburbs-Posters.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 266px;" src="http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/LIFPOD/983846%7EBritish-Children-Playing-Outdoor-Games-in-London-Suburbs-Posters.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>This grey morning away<br />Listening to the pounding pumped-in patterns<br />Of so-called rock and roll,<br />In the so-called French cafe<br />On a grey day,<br />I am stealing you away,<br />I am stealing you from your dreams, locking them<br />into<br />A quiet closet, dark and settled,<br />I am closing the door and asking you<br />"Gently, now and hush,"<br />So I can have time away<br />So I can steal the time<br />Myself<br />Steal myself<br />The time away, a trapped hour<br />Inside a long morning.<br /><br />Yes, I hear you singing, inside<br />The quiet closet<br />Singing to yourself and I see<br />What you are seeing, in the dark--<br />Coat tails dangling, reaching for the limp<br />Shoelaces that spoon the dust bunnies to sleep.<br />And a vacuum, waiting in the corner, eyes<br />Closed, waiting to work.<br /><br />You are singing now and I can hear your notes<br />Sliver through the keyhole, slip under the door,<br />But not the words.<br />Not the words.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-56229873189265252492009-02-24T20:27:00.002+00:002009-02-24T20:40:06.759+00:00Jealousy is a Broken Spirit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.mainetoday.com/blogs/shannon/photos/barbie_head_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 181px;" src="http://www.mainetoday.com/blogs/shannon/photos/barbie_head_1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Proud of you--<br />Italy awaits--cold mornings frozen breath<br />In the Alpine air.<br />The sharp fear of incomplete pages and the<br />Running days that look like failure.<br /><br />There are monuments cast in papier-mache<br />Postcards, stamped with my name<br />Hidden in closets here--<br />I'll never send them either<br />Am still waiting<br /><br />For my own Croatian family<br />To call me, my own ancestors to<br />Acknowledge my shadow. Even though<br />We both know they died, too, pining<br />For recognition. Silent and sad.<br /><br />So sorry, sister. Chicken little is<br />Hiding over here and scribbling<br />Fiercely in a soundproof canyon--<br />So no one can hear the scream of torment,<br />When you win, I lose.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-45904778267334031272009-02-11T12:58:00.002+00:002009-02-11T13:02:57.064+00:00Repeating VoicesI've got to learn a song, so I've got to play<br />Over and over, to catch the melody<br />To carve the lyrics into the hardest<br />Bone of my skull.<br /><br />Like generations of Buendias, the "carousel of<br />Time" keeps spinning in my head,<br />Even through the fog of sleep<br />Now a tinkling music box, Open open open<br />At the same lyric and note.<br /><br />Not repeating, but exacting the meaning<br />From words said the same way<br />At a different cut in time.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-38747291654578312392009-02-08T22:51:00.005+00:002009-02-11T13:04:29.735+00:00Low Hanging FruitThis is supposed to be a poem, But a poem won't fit into my<br />irregular shape, the shards and heavy sighs that I am assembling under the nearest<br />Ugly, lame fluorescent<br />Streetlight. And I know you know what I mean, because I know that<br />You've woken up from an accidental afternoon nap, too, feeling<br />Sort of<br />Refreshed, but not sure why you slept because<br />You weren't tired<br />And you<br />Had a few things still on your To Do list left<br />To Do. But<br />Something happened while you were<br />Sleeping, not dreaming,<br />That solid hard afternoon sleep--<br />Something awoke in you,<br />Punching through the hard winter soil, unwelcome, the early tulip on<br />A prematurely warm February Day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.ci.grandjct.co.us/citydeptwebpages/AdministrativeServices/InformationSystems/IS-Images/GrandValleyAreaPhotos/FullMoonGeese-DaveRoper.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 233px; height: 174px;" src="http://www.ci.grandjct.co.us/citydeptwebpages/AdministrativeServices/InformationSystems/IS-Images/GrandValleyAreaPhotos/FullMoonGeese-DaveRoper.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>And now the light of the Sunday is gone,<br />And the rest of the evening is waiting for you to figure out what the fuck<br />If anything you intend<br />To Do and<br />You are pretty sure you can get the rest of these <span style="font-style: italic;">Things<br />Done</span>. But,<br />All you care about is the sound of that flock of geese, honking madly across<br />The full rising moon<br />And where the hell are they going, southbound, in February?EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-85769409780236473132009-02-05T21:04:00.002+00:002009-02-05T21:16:17.698+00:00Broken Friends<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/212/508385153_4980bea4b0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 331px; height: 274px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/212/508385153_4980bea4b0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I would have gone canoeing<br />In the Boundary Waters and<br />Gathered dry wood to make<br />A fire for all of us to sit around.<br /><br />I'm a hard worker-- you'd have never<br />Been sorry if you'd have invited me<br />To camp with The Girls<br />And lay on backs, on damp grass<br />To watch the Northern lights.<br /><br />I'd have volunteered to stand<br />At the Guestbook of your sweet<br />Wedding, handing the pen to guests,<br />Saying hello. No need to even<br />Apologize-- there are no small jobs,<br />Only small people.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-57869521789921727042009-01-28T14:35:00.004+00:002009-01-28T14:48:58.008+00:00Shiny Happy MeThis is the answer: believe.<br />Sleep when you are tired.<br />Eat when you are hungry.<br />Answer questions.<br />Be kind. Be firm.<br />Look forward in pink,<br />Look backward with reason.<br />Keep moving, keep dancing.<br /><br />This is the answer: be broken<br />When the pieces<br />Are laid out before you anyway.<br />Be shattered, when exhaustion<br />Promises to swallow you anyway.<br />Be imperfect when flaws<br />Gain the highest ground anyway.<br />Be lost, when the destination is<br />Unknown.<br /><br />This is the answer: be happy<br />When you realize you are already there,<br />When you taste the metallic joy<br />Of breaking dawn,<br />After the long sleep.<br />The answer:<br />Fresh like morning--<br />Unbridled like night.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-87248119468701850372008-11-15T12:34:00.002+00:002008-11-15T12:49:45.850+00:00Silent<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZhWRpTbnSjnrX1xkPM4whOwA4aeBDdWrwJswpfnUu0R3LcBO4iyTI9y7UreB_ORV9Z99zXVnWBereq2_sMidX2piDfAZGzzH0IdtzDiy0-YbUFW_LC7sn1AzrR2wcGf3PGI0/s1600-h/Window+View.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZhWRpTbnSjnrX1xkPM4whOwA4aeBDdWrwJswpfnUu0R3LcBO4iyTI9y7UreB_ORV9Z99zXVnWBereq2_sMidX2piDfAZGzzH0IdtzDiy0-YbUFW_LC7sn1AzrR2wcGf3PGI0/s320/Window+View.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268865232345137682" border="0" /></a>Out my window, there is no sound.<br />The leaf let's go of the branch,<br />It floats like breath and<br />Lands without notice.<br /><br />But I heard.<br /><br />It tore away from its mother home,<br />And the terror it felt made a screech<br />I heard<br />As it raced headlong to the hard pebbles<br />And hit the earth with a smack.<br /><br />I heard.<br /><br />Out my window, those trees are motionless.<br />Immovable objects that leave, I saw, their<br />Detritus on the things owned and meaningful--<br />With the seasons, swept away.<br /><br />But I saw.<br /><br />I saw them dancing, leaping in the wind<br />Last week-- and one night, my feet cold<br />And my heart hammering from a dream, I saw<br />Them bent towards each other, whispering.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-80970755482156622532007-04-19T17:45:00.000+01:002007-04-19T18:13:09.879+01:00Under a Sheltering Sky<div align="right"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZYxR-yg3XowInjV9C4CnAVGv3LxUfxlewi8SEU-s3YbUCof4M1EQLa6QaH4HLL18j1YNsWvWIc3JJig4fB6Uycu-iEk5TfLTaN5Jud8boLxzY9oAASYbb3jXirfZbSRnROaq/s1600-h/Isolated_Finished.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055182615270009282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="What I saw in Ireland... and it saw in me" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZYxR-yg3XowInjV9C4CnAVGv3LxUfxlewi8SEU-s3YbUCof4M1EQLa6QaH4HLL18j1YNsWvWIc3JJig4fB6Uycu-iEk5TfLTaN5Jud8boLxzY9oAASYbb3jXirfZbSRnROaq/s400/Isolated_Finished.jpg" border="1" /></a><br /><em>When I look up at you looking down...<br />Say it was only a dream...</em></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><p><br />How many days will it take, now,<br />Before that sad-faced doctor's expression will leave me?<br />How many countries will I run to, looking out into oceans<br />Thinking they are as empty as me,<br />Looking into strange, smiling faces<br />Awkward in my dead silence<br /><br />Begging</p><p>Answers</p><p>Comfort</p><p>Rage Haven.<br /><br /></p><div align="right"><em>Twirl me about and twirl me around<br />Let me grow dizzy and fall to the ground<br />And when I look up at you looking down,<br />Say it was only a....</em> <p></p></div><p><br />The flat calm lies across me<br />A greasy film<br />I see myself in its rubbery reflection<br />From somewhere down inside here...<br /><br />I remember Ophelia lying there<br />With the current running over her lips<br />The babbling brook laughing<br />Across her fingers tips<br />And she not even blinking.<br /><br />You know, Tim? You know, Marcus? I thought<br />The haunting might end, in Ireland.<br />I thought the ghosts of wrecked childhood would<br />Dissolve, Sugar in hot tea<br />At St. Stephen's Green.<br /><br />But mists betrayed me<br />The green fields in sunlight<br />Too familiar, like the rolls of empty<br />Iowa South I crossed angry<br />And abandoned, so many times, homeward.<br /><br />Colin pushed us and pushed us.<br />It was all wrong. The sight<br />Seeing we never do. The narrow detours<br />Because the guide said to. The running<br />From one bed to another, places we only<br />Slept.<br /><br />I'll remember Ireland.<br />Thin blue skies, thin rough tracks<br />Loose stacked stone fences and voices<br />Singing in Galway, but<br />Not for me.<br />Not for me.<br /><div align="right"><em>I used to believe we were just like those trees<br />We grow just as tall and as proud as we please<br />With our feet on the ground and arms in the breeze<br />Under a sheltering sky.</em><br /></div><div align="right">--Mary Chapin Carpenter<br />"Only a Dream"</div>EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1163376826835209822006-11-13T00:04:00.000+00:002006-11-13T00:13:46.876+00:00The End of Europe<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/1600/IMG_3638.1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/320/IMG_3638.0.jpg" border="1" alt="The trees in Sintra" /></a><br /><br />On a walk, on the edge of green,<br />Hidden inside the branches<br />Of Portuguese trees,<br />I felt again—or didn’t feel—<br />A whisper under my feet. <br /><br />With my eyes soaking the blood<br />And mustard shades of Sintra<br />Her palace shadowing the sea,<br />I felt again—not really—<br />The softness inside my shoe. <br /><br />Inside my Goretex, inside the clouds<br />That wrung themselves out on Colares,<br />Rain guttering in the trackside,<br />I crushed the fibres—and they sprang back—<br />The fabric ensconced in my boot. <br /><br />Before the hike, before the storms,<br />Before the howling dogs followed us.<br />Before we crossed the dark road of Sao Pedro,<br />I gave one shop six pounds—all coins—<br />For socks, and found a way to the end of Europe.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1162209711163107732006-10-30T11:55:00.000+00:002006-10-30T12:04:09.873+00:00Mounds bar, scorned<a href="http://www.rareads.com/scans1/25028.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 241px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 403px" height="414" alt="Mounds bar... the last candy in the bag" src="http://www.rareads.com/scans1/25028.jpg" border="1" /></a><br />I'm down here!<br />In the bottom!<br />Gosh, I even have the bright, red packet!<br />Come on! I'm chocolate, even.<br />I'm <em>good</em>! I'm better than those crappy<br />Sour Skittles, and the wax<br />Bottle of "juice" you sucked down.<br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br />I mean, it's not <em>exactly</em> fruit. I mean,<br />It's more like... almonds. Yeah! Like<br />A nut! It even has the word nut in the<br />Name. And you LOVE cocoa.<br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br />Oh! Here he comes again. Take me!<br />Take me! Take m--<br />Oh. huh.<br />Took the granola bar.<br />Oh well.<br /><br />At least I know his Dad'll eat me.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1161782543443153862006-10-25T14:09:00.000+01:002006-10-30T12:29:59.066+00:00Hobo Days<a href="http://www.wynia.net/wynpics/hobo.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 10px; WIDTH: 234px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px" height="277" alt="" src="http://www.wynia.net/wynpics/hobo.jpg" border="1" /></a><br />Daddy cut the charcoal<br />And rubbed it on my face.<br />I tied the jeans with a piece of cord<br />From the an old curtain rod.<br /><br />My fingers got blackened<br />All on their own,<br />When I crumpled newspaper for my old bandana.<br />A stick, a stick. I needed a stick.<br /><br />It was one of those cold October<br />Nights. Dad's old blazer<br />Hung well past my knees. In the pocket<br />A business card for Lujack's Automotive.<br /><br />In hobo days, before I knew things,<br />Before my dog died, before I owned<br />Anything. In hobo days, I kept a box<br />In my drawer. For treasuers, like buttons and notes.<br /><br />Cold, clear night. Flashlights and loot.<br />I walked with my sister, my friends. The doors were<br />Opened, to hobos and spooks,<br />And princesses wearing cardigans.<br /><br />Hobo days, charcoal face, bandana on stick.<br />Paper Frankenstein taped to the wall.<br />Hobo days, candle glow inside of a gourd,<br />Harvesting the warm moments of fall.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1154433318846206022006-08-01T12:51:00.000+01:002006-08-01T12:55:18.856+01:00No Words For It<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/640/drawing_room2.jpg"><img style="CLEAR: all; FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="Tomoko Takahasi" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/320/drawing_room2.jpg" border="1" /></a> <br />Everything I have ever done is a mistake.<br /><br />I see that now, now that I am in this room.<br /><br />I’ve taken trains out, to Leicester and Saffron Walden, and back in. The wrong ticket, or the wrong platform. Met the wrong woman, at the wrong time. For the wrong reasons.<br /><br />Once I said “OK” to a doctor. He gave me those pills. I took them, five times a day, for five days, until they were finished. I abstained from drinking. I abstained from you, because you didn’t want me anymore after you found out. It was the wrong pill, the wrong diagnosis. The wrong “yes.”<br /><br />But hey, you know, baby, don’t you? I know how to say no. I’ve said no before. That one BIG no, it left skid marks on my life. I drop-kicked opportunity, right on through the goal posts, didn’t I? Why would I say yes to that request to work abroad, if you were here, here, here? I plugged it up with T-N-T, burned that bridge, and look, up there—you can see, all around the room, the brackish, high-water marks of the flood, the deluge that NO left behind.<br /><br />“It’s as if we’re tracing some familiar fault line,” Jonatha sings. Faults, all the marks of this past year, they aren’t dissolving sugar in tea. They scar you. “Remember Christine?” some shithead said to me at a party one night, as if you were just a girl in my Maths class or something. “Christine was such a nice girl.”<br /><br />Christine, I remember, yes. “Christine wanted to be with me,” I laughed and laughed. He didn’t think it was that funny. He walked away while I laughed, glancing back over his shoulder, the way people do, outside this room.<br /><br />Remember Christine, what you said? “Henry. Just tell me the truth. I can handle it. I don’t mind. Unless you lie to me. I just want the truth.”<br /><br />I knew Christine didn’t mind anything. She was so easy. So I told her, “Hey, I love you. You know, Christine.”<br /><br />It was the truth anyway, but it was still another mistake. I wanted to erase the words from that speech balloon, hanging over my head, once I said them. Because I saw her face. Your face. I saw your face, Christine. I knew what words meant when you twisted them round, and what they didn’t mean, to me.<br /><br />I “X”ed her out, but not very well. She still showed herself, wiggled around the marks. She was slow and hard and cruel, like the doctor who insisted I stop smoking. I did it, I cut it out, and it cut me back. It screeched across me, like a deep gauge in the Earth. Who knew that dirt could be so fucking comfortable? I moved into that shallow grave, hunkered down and wallowed there, for that black time.<br /><br />For two weeks, once, all I wanted to do was eat marshmallows, smoke and make paper airplanes out of junk mail. I went to the library, because I was bored making that same model I learned in year one. Got a book on paper airplanes in that musty building, and also a volume—not checked out since 2001—on origami.<br /><br />I ran out of take-away menus and estate agent offers, so I borrowed the neighbours’ mail. I opened it. I folded it into jets and tropical birds, then and shoved them through their mail slots. It would have been fine, except that Tuesday I smoked dope and the marshmallows didn’t sit so well and I puked on Mr. Pilar’s doormat. He complained to the porter and the porter complained to the police and they… well. Who says there is no such thing as debtor’s prison anymore?<br /><br />The first time I saw Christine again, after everything fell down, was at the video store where she worked. She had grown her fingernails really long and painted them mint green. Also, she had purple hair. I still wanted to fuck her, but after I saw her like that, something made me want to smack her hard, knock that gum out of her mouth. After I started shouting, that tall-tall manager asked me to leave and I never did get to rent “Shaun of the Dead.” I just went home and watched old Dr. Who reruns. Another mistake.<br /><br />All during that time I was wearing the ankle bracelet, I tried to sort through that box of shit, all those magazines and papers and dock-U-ments from HIS house. They smelled like that vanilla bean lotion his was always spreading on his hands, goddamn. It was a mistake, especially while I was confined. Every line of every piece of paper kept speaking to me, in HIS voice. That voice that always told me to pull up my socks—New Statesmen, credit card offers, insurance documents, utility bills, all of it booming at me: “Henry! Monthly Payment Plan: Save £12 a year and stay in control.” I dreamt over and over, for a week, that I wore HIS bowler hat, and the zippered cardigan he wore every Saturday, and nothing else. My cock flopped everywhere, while I gardened, cycled to work, fucked Christine, went to the pub, went to meetings. And I smelled vanilla everywhere. I never smelled anything in a dream before, or since.<br /><br />You keep writing to me. All through this year, in this room. I don’t want to see you. Not your face, not your hand—fuck!—either, and least of all your soul, all the pinprick details of your life all inked out in black and white. As if I could hold any of it, any of you again. I crossed you <strong>OUT</strong>, you know. I made an ‘X’ in you, but what do you do? You keep pecking at me, an old, dried-up corpse. I’m carrion, remember? I tried Tippex, permanent marking pen, battery acid and I don’t know what—what will convince you?!<br /><br />I can’t decide what really is more of a mistake—saying yes to you, or, later, saying no, Christine. I have put myself inside here. I closed the lid on it—this lovely white room. It should be still. It should be peaceful. But CLANG CLANG CLANG who is sprawling themselves—!<br /><br />No. I stop. I’ve wanted this— What … No…<br /><br />I have no words for it.<br /><br />Remember Christine, that Sunday in February? We slept late. When we finally looked out, the entire world was carpeted in snow, thick and heavy: across the garden, across the streets, blotting out the steel, the wrought iron, the cement and brick. I walked away, reached for the remote control, but you stopped me. I opened my mouth to protest, but you stopped that too; you put that short, stubby finger over my lips and held it there while we looked at each other.<br />Then you walked over pushed the window open wide.<br /><br />The cold air rushed in, like an impatient friend who’d been waiting to be let in. Snow fell off the sill onto our toes, but we didn’t jump or yelp. You leaned out into the grey morning, pulled me out beside you, pressing your hands into the frozen wetness. The wind blew, and we watched.<br /><br />Nothing moved—no branch, no wire, no form stirred in the solid, city garden.<br /><br />I inhaled and held it. There was no sound, except the wind, hollow and thin, touching the top of the new snow. The whiteness enfolded everything, holding it—down? No, I don’t think so. Maybe it was just holding it. The whiteness embraced the world, and everything lay unmoving, unrestrained, but still.<br /><br />Finally, I exhaled. My breath fogged the scene. Christine, you pulled back, retracted into the day. It did not last. But again, and again, you know, it does, Christine.<br /><br />In the space here, between the black marks, I can still see the white, the stillness. It holds me down.<br /><br />I like you <em>silent</em>, Christine. The blankness seems so much bigger everyday. White expands, marshmallow through my fingers.<br /><br />Shhh now. Mistakes are underneath me.<br /><br />I am taking it all apart. <a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a> EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1152173229234835822006-07-06T08:50:00.000+01:002006-07-06T09:07:09.246+01:00Walking with Bill<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/1600/life-aquatic_Warm.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/320/life-aquatic_Warm.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Everyone falls in love with you<br />Bill.<br />Even though you aren't that pretty<br />Even though you talk rough and you're<br />So old now.<br /><br />Lately you've been sombre<br />And you don't really look great<br />In a wetsuit.<br />Still, everyone falls in love<br />With you.<br /><br />In the park, everyone else had dogs: dalamatians<br />Alsatians, English sheep dogs<br />And Scottish terriers<br />Wagging their ends, their wet<br />Noses pressed against, black on black.<br /><br />But the grey morning hung wet<br />And I hung onto you, Bill, feeling<br />The whales and jaguar sharks<br />And seahorses press against me<br />Everyone falls in love with me.<br /><br />Heart over mind, the bird is tumbling from the sky<br />Bill<br />I'm not talking so pretty anymore.<br />I'm getting grey myself, but<br />Everyone falls in love with you.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1151513545512714032006-06-28T17:43:00.000+01:002006-06-28T18:16:01.850+01:00Framed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.austingranger.com/images/SANd%20Castle,%20Baker%20Beach,%20San%20Francisco,%20June%202000.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.austingranger.com/images/SANd%20Castle,%20Baker%20Beach,%20San%20Francisco,%20June%202000.jpg" border="1" alt="" /></a><br />Left to its own devices,<br />My pen will drool and dribble.<br /><br />The ink soaks the sheet like<br />Sea disappearing into the beach.<br /><br />I can dig a moat around my sandy turrets<br />But the water still caves it all in.<br /><br />When I need a buttress,<br />When I look forward and I see nothing but <br /><br />Empty space, I find the focal point:<br />Adjust the shutter speed<br /><br />For the cloudy-bright afternoon, then<br />Press and hold the button halfway.<br /><br />Take focus off the inner grind.<br />Inside the machine, one-sixtieth of a second<br /><br />Snaps, a dog gulping jerky treat,<br />And I capture one vision of time.<br /><br />Full, the frame restrains my view;<br />My eyes gorge themselves on pixilated detail.<br /><br />I built the fence, and I grow inside it.<br />I box myself into the digitized borders,<br /><br />Muscles cramping over a single verb<br />A seed buried in a container in direct sun.<br /><br />The pen lifts: it holds itself, hovering<br />There’s time, and no need to bleed.<br /><br />Inside the frame, light cuts into slivers <br />Boxes and slats dividing the space again. <br /><br />Ink carves the emptiness like a river.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1150969980744362122006-06-22T10:44:00.001+01:002011-01-11T15:52:09.066+00:00My Old Porch<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/sq1cdjkVol7FhJEncY7UJg?feat=embedwebsite" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_PDEg-58-qqA/TSx8Am0d7JI/AAAAAAAAZNI/zJz-dh_KABY/s1600/Old%20porch%20summer.jpg" /></a><br />
In <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/music/clipserve/B000002PDX001004/0/ref=mu_sam_wma_001_004/104-5181165-9244723">that song</a>, Lyle told me about a<br />
Steaming, greasy plate of enchiladas<br />
<br />
With lots of cheese and onions.<br />
Singing that song about his old porch.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t think of my old porch that way.<br />
My old porch hung off the house<br />
<br />
Like a dead weight, that tongue of cement<br />
Lolling in the front yard.<br />
<br />
My old porch cowered like an old dog<br />
Under—well—a porch, in the heat of the day.<br />
<br />
It sagged, sighing in puffs of air,<br />
That slatted swing a-barely twitching.<br />
<br />
In the storms, my porch huddled in the against the brick<br />
A schoolchild practicing a tornado drill.<br />
<br />
But, at night, when the sun advanced and hid behind<br />
The house across the street, then, finally, ran off home,<br />
<br />
My old porch dropped its hunched shoulders<br />
The slats of the swing undulating in the<br />
<br />
Evening breaths. I’d perch on one step, leaning into<br />
The softening wood post. My old porch held me<br />
<br />
Like an old familiar hand.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1150804667541025082006-06-20T12:54:00.000+01:002006-06-20T12:57:47.560+01:00Late<a href="http://www.ebsqart.com/Art/5609/162114/MiscarriageLifeagainatgiventime_275_275.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.ebsqart.com/Art/5609/162114/MiscarriageLifeagainatgiventime_275_275.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I wanted to be there early, to that sorority of women who push evolution along. I wanted to be there on time. I wanted to be there when everyone else was arriving.<br /><br />I wanted to blend in, to move with the bodies that were moving already. I wanted to press my body into that one body, already making itself. Then I would not be noticed for my individuality.<br /><br />I wanted to make it easy. A life made easy. One small life. That’s all I wanted.<br /><br />I had a friend. She got it all so easy. Oops and she arrived, first time, even after all that coke and pot and those drink-filled nights. So easy, and they drew back the velvet rope and let her slide right in.<br /><br />I didn’t want to lose it. Or if I had to lose it, I didn’t want to have it, anyway, in the first place. Something—or someone—laughed, I think, coming along, letting me peek inside, then and ripping it all out of me. Take it out, flush it, clots, down the toilet. Barred again.<br /><br />I make cookies. I make paper airplanes. I make piles of rumpled, dirty clothes and I make them clean and folded. I even make the African violet bloom, sometimes.<br /><br />That is, when I don’t forget. When I am not late with the things it needs. When I am not off doing whatever I did to let it all go to hell.<br /><br />I am not late. I am in hell. <br /><br />I wanted to be there early, but I couldn’t find the door. I couldn’t find the man who would open it.<br /><br />Now I am not late. I am not late, isn’t that good?<br /><br />No. I am so far behind that I have not even arrived yet.<br /><br />Or maybe I’m just in the queue, the line of vacuous losers, who are never let in.<br /><br />I want to be myself-plus, expanded. I want to be lush, to be flushed, and ripe.<br /><br />Instead, I am gutted, rutting against the alarm, the tick-tick-tick of the calendar clock.<br /><br />It’s night now, and I can push it all down in to darkness, what little darkness there is on this solstice evening. <br /><br />I was young, but everyday now I am reminded that I wasted it.<br /><br />I wanted to be early, to be on time. To have it. To hold.<br /><br />It’s too late for that now.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1147253493979921502006-05-10T10:07:00.000+01:002006-05-10T10:31:33.986+01:00A Face to Love<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/640/DSC004151.jpg"><img style="CLEAR: all; FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="I love this face!" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/320/DSC004151.1.jpg" border="1" /></a>I saw this man on the Tube. If Colin were with me, he wouldn't have wanted me to take this photo. But he wasn't with me.<br /><br />I love this face. I am not laughing or teasing. I love this man's face, his enormous glasses and drooping jowls. I think, "You know, this guy probably, maybe, doesn't like what he sees in the mirror much." Or he just sighs and doesn't think about it. But I do. I thought about the entire train journey.<br /><br />What made his face fall like this? What does he do? He is dressed like a regular Brit, but is he far from his home? What does this face look like, smiling?<br /><br />I wanted to be in the shop with him when he bought those frames, when he tried them on, looked in the mirror, squinting through the faux lenses, then nodding.<br /><br />I want to know what he likes to read, and whether he drinks tea or coffee, or both.<br /><br />One of the great joys of my life is imagining people. My life soars inside the imagined lives of people I see and don't meet.<br /><br />Inside every face is a world worth knowing, worth loving. <a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a> EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25550783.post-1145527044982212082006-04-20T10:39:00.000+01:002006-04-20T11:01:57.676+01:00Promises<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/1600/DSC00382.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="Shrouded for Holy Week" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/400/DSC00382.jpg" border="1" /></a><br />My friend Bobbi wanted to know why I gave things up for Lent.<br /><br />"Is it a spiritual thing, or more for discipline?"<br /><br />I stumbled over my answer, something about sacrifice and wanting to spend that time thinking about what choices I am making everyday.<br /><br />Lent is gone now and I have a whole selection of candy around the house. I can eat it whenever I like. And I do.<br /><br />Bobbi is Jewish. She celebrated Passover during the first days of Holy Week. She told me, when we were at dinner last night, that she just spent the whole week not eating bread. I realized I don't know anything about Passover. I remember the angel passing over the houses that had the blood of the lamb on the doorstep. I remember that story. But I don't know much about the holy day itself, and how Jews celebrate it.<br /><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/1600/DSC00388.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:10px ;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/1015/400/DSC00388.jpg" border="1" alt="Candles at Bromton Oratory" /></a><br />My in-laws are lapsed Jews. The Phillips family came from the Mendoza family, a settlement of Spanish-Portugese Jews in London. My husband and his father and brother look Jewish. But they aren't anymore.<br /><br />I stopped into the Brompton Oratory in Knightsbridge last week, during Holy Week. It was Holy Thursday. That's the day that Jesus washed the feet of his followers. As it says in the mass it is "the night he was betrayed." The figures of all the saints were shrouded in purple drapes. It was afternoon. A few people, women and men, old and young, were kneeling, here and there, praying. They were alone in their thoughts, but together in their prayer. One woman was saying the rosary in front of a shrouded bulk that was Mary, hidden. <br /><br />I lit a candle. I prayed too, for my family: my old family and my new one. And for my future family, that I want to have. I thought of each person, individually. And I prayed thoughts for my grandparents, who Mom tells me are always looking out for me. I wondered where they are now, now that Purgatory doesn't exist any more. <br /><br />I don't think 40 days and 40 nights are enough, but I can make do with that for one small promise.EHowardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09553434784454659408noreply@blogger.com0