May 7, 2012
To write is to let things pass slower than they happened, to toss negative space from memory and arrange leftover fragments. Summer sand; yellow pails; cold moats. Numbing bass; glasses kicked from the table; soft graze of cherry chapstick. High balcony; her grip uncurls; the smell of my own fingernails.
It seems to me that writing imitates life in that we are at first all things and through the art of forgetting, not remembering, do we chisel the pyramids of ourselves.
May 4, 2012
If there is a God, he must be wearing black.
Blood matted in young, blonde hair twists into this old mind like rings into tree trunks, hard rivers that stretch wider with age. Green shoots were breaking the snow, I remember, and daylight refracted off the pond’s mulchy glass. The children couldn’t help themselves, sledding on their stomachs, pulling imaginary triggers at each other before the first landmine screamed in my ears. Things rolled to my feet.
If there is a God, he’s on his knees.
May 1, 2012
Egg yolk spilled across the sky three minutes earlier this morning, pooling over metallic blue in patches. As I trudge forward, sand screws up to my knees during long gusts to remind me that even in the desert I am not alone in waking. This is not a spiritual quest; this is not a nightmare, for that implies brevity. This is a purposeful challenge to that slobbering, scrap-iron pig, Death.
Wilted cacti already duplicate in periphery and my hands tremble over my pack’s straps. I will not spend energy thinking on this. I may survive. And I may die. But this fight is going to end with cold fists meeting dry metal.