Last year we bought a live Christmas tree.
Alas, my black thumb proved it not an evergreen.
This time the fear isn’t of becoming undone.
The thought is new, and so I assume it to be oxytocin-derived.
Permanence, the unZen, can hit
in places where Control+Z (Command on a Mac)
isn’t registered as an available shortcut.
Yes. I fear the unlikely. Falling
through the grates on a city sidewalk. Asteroids.
My infant plagued with all my worst genetic legacy.
An instant, it’s all it takes. A scratch. A fall.
Unmending. Unending. Disaster.
A (this) mother has irrational fears.
Aptly named, this website, loredana dot me.
Dutifully measuring the “me” across time,
I (at least) need a haircut.
I don’t have much to show for
(ever since I’ve started showing).
It’s as if building you took
not just amino-acid chains
but poetry as well.
As an excuse I mentioned
the matter of audience change.
You, my superlative,
intimate from the inside,
know too much.
Allow me my old habit of anxiety
in realizing the risk - no, the reality
of your future (accurate) interpretation.
But motherhood takes courage
and so I write again.
—Lake And Ocean
Lake and Ocean - The Coral Sea
for several weeks, i’ve entertained the observation
(a humor-charged melancholy)
that different muses this year
seem to strip my favorite tree of its crown.
i love it better when it’s dying.
but i digress. the point here
is autumn itself.
a budding fist inside my skin bodes spring.
and i, like the tree, have to hurry up and let go.
Life is a stubborn occurence
Watching hormones strip
popular songs of their memories
proclaiming Sadness (untinged)
the main ingredient of lullabies.
Everything. Will be alright.
Digital paper to pen resumes now.
There was a young man who said damn
For it certainly seems that I am
A creature that moves in determinate grooves
I’m not even a bus I’m a tram.
Some Trains Go Nowhere (via Extra Medium)
frankin fruit (via from a second story.)
there are illusions at times
as comfortable on skin
as whispers of 75 degree farhenheit.
(so you forget.)
diseased, the brain projects bliss on a mute hemisphere.
that which you seek does not exist.
Letting go of my face in the mirror,
reflexion echoes concern in place of a smile.
I won’t see her again.
(Great come-back, I know.
These three lines required
43 days of continual ponder)
William Kentridge - Weighing… and Wanting (1997) (via ead1529)