Logo

I'll be changing my logo.

First, I need the old logo.  
Make it recognizable, but no longer right.
Betty Boop's face, or a ladybug.

We need a new logo that says:   
Magnificent In Her Reckoning

and an old logo that says:   
cute! no trouble (-:
  
I'm changing my logo.

Not to the "om" symbol, though I like the design.  
I can't scream it.

Not the equation for the speed of light, though I like the calculation. 
I can't scream it.

I'll become crow by night,
screaming.
I'll become crow in swan's clothing by day,
dreaming.



 

 






 

  




 

 

 

 



 

Detonated Diary

"Detonated Diary" is the title I gave that piece I wrote when I was 25 for a "Vietnam and the Artist" class in college, which I re-read a month ago when I was 53 (before letting my dad have a copy), and in which I re-encountered forgotten material about the lover who died obscenely young of cancer after telling me we'd be friends for life but also admitting that I'd never be plan A for him.  (Plan A was a married woman named Tricia.  That part's not forgotten.)  While looking for that piece, I also rummaged through old diaries and saw a sketch I made from memory of that same guy, because I had no photograph of him and liked him that much, not because he was not long for this world, which I didn't know yet when I made the sketch.  I also wrote down his birthday, December 26, 1959.  

And on my knees in the basement unearthing all this I muttered under my breath... "fucking Capricorn"

He was good though, a good friend, and I sometimes still sense his infuriatingly platonic presence and love for me, like he'll meet me on the bridge, he'll be there when it's my time, all smiles and teddy bear warmth, with those brown eyes and those biceps.

(but I'm still not plan A, I get it...)

Maine-bound

driving into storms
"wimple-shipers" slapping time
(the child in her sings)

she grew in this place
of grim pilgrim settlements
quaint villages now

white-steepled churches
in wild terrain or in towns
blueberries and god

rosehips and seaweed
pidgen-speaking lobstermen
ancient new english

we breathe salt, eat fish
admire authors, work hard
and keep to ourselves

we were bound for Maine
and to it, and then away
too restless to stay



 

 


 
 




 

Totality

I was born three weeks late on a full moon.  I mean, it was full if you looked at the sky.  But it wasn't quite full.  It was 10 degrees shy.  

Shy, but luminous, imminently full without attaining the real deal, existing in that state of anticipation just before you step onto a stage, when your heart is in your throat, and time stands still.  I don't have to perform yet.  I don't have to abandon a secret joy or cope with a disillusionment when everything's suspended like this, in suspense, pending.

I like it best when the gift is in my lap and I haven't yet pulled the ribbon.  I like it best when the roller coaster is about to crest. "There's more to this story" is music to my ears.  Ambiguity is at the heart of all my favorite poems.

Shy is the neutral ground between performing and self-destructing.  Anonymity is the refuge, until I see that I haven't ever been seen, that I'm disappearing (without a trace). 

At 15 I wore the cigarette and the flannel shirt with unlaced boots of the girls who weren't good, but I was good.  I hated Aerosmith and pretended to like them.  I knew every Joni Mitchell song by heart and feigned indifference.  I was ambivalent, and I could become anything, for anyone.  I loved a guy madly, secretly, but I was eclipsed. 

Monday I will celebrate turning 53 during a solar eclipse.  I like how this is a new moon, and maybe I'm coming full circle with this one.  Maybe I can imagine being full finally, and holding onto that fullness.  Until then, I will make shadows here.






 

different

He might be all of 18, my slave.

You think this is another dream.
It's something different.

He has something to say, something to sign.
My arms are full but I happen to be empty. 
So I'm already listening before he speaks.
Today for no reason this stranger is different.

You seem so different he says. 
By different, he means kind. 
Kind is different (though they're antonyms).
I'm kind of different, for my kind.

Write your number down right here he says
pointing to a line on his petition.
if you want me to be your slave.
?? (smile)
Oh I know you ain't like that.

This kid.

He doesn't know that I am like that.






 

The Ex

Spent an hour with the ex (and others) this week.  Remembered everything, what I love about him, why it wasn't sustainable.

He's so very bright.  He's so very embittered.  He's so very funny.  He takes up space.

But yeah, I keep seeking that out anyway, in new contexts, new faces, and making sparks with it.  That's some kind of sustainable after all.  I'm better at filling my own space now.
 

Driven

I'm in what should be the driver's seat, but I have no steering wheel. He's in what should be passenger's seat, driving confidently, as if we're in England and always have been in England.  I think we're like besties on this road trip, ever so close, and getting ever closer, with me just kicking back enjoying the scenery, him being charming and driving well, but in the next scene he says a thing that makes me completely doubt my understanding of things. 

We're at the destination, a bed and breakfast, settling in, affectionately I think.  He's moving clothes from his suitcase into a dresser like the orderly, organized, ready-to-be-present-where-he-is guy (whereas I always just keep my suitcase packed and voila! I'm also ready... to escape at a moment's notice).  I notice there's only a single bed in this room.  Yay, I guess we'll be cozy?   

"It's clear from that drive that there's no 'we'," he declares calmly.  Even kindly, like a teacher.  "But at least we're connecting."  

Whoa.

The implication is that I should not have been so passively content with being driven by him.  I'm challenged to also drive-choose-speak-steer-dare-risk and in the end *unpack* if I want him and me to be "we".