Rebel Writers (plus a poem – Sinner)

Graphic of red moon and yellow stars against a black sky

Red Moon, graphic by Estela

I said I didn’t want to continue writing here. I haven’t made up my mind yet: should I stay or should I go?

I had a dream last night about poets. Not academic poets, but rebel poets, free spirit poets, bohemian poets, poets who hate “the establishment”. Old guys who are gone now, and whom I never met. But in my dream they were there and I was there. I was chastising them, criticizing them, chewing them out, calling them losers and reckless fools. Telling them I regretted my stupidity and naivete at having loved and admired them. Telling them I followed them because I believed in them, but I no longer did. I woke up feeling depressed.

I was listening to Hank Williams. Lost Highway is a great song. I got inspired to write this poem called Sinner. Williams’ song is about remorse, guilt, and judgment. Mine isn’t. It’s a dark humored rebellion against shallow judgement. I think I will open my next poetry reading with this one. My poetry reading at Adobe Books. It’s a Flor y Canto Festival, and I’m happy I was invited to be one of the poets to read. One of the readers I’m reading with is A. D. Winans, a San Francisco born, award winning poet who was a friend of Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is my number one favorite writer in the whole world. I’d read that he knew Brautigan too, but Winans told me he didn’t know Richard Brautigan, but they drank in the same bar, Gino and Carlo’s in North Beach, and only had casual conversation. Brautigan wrote Trout Fishing in America, which brought him lit fame, but my fave is In Watermelon Sugar. I love all his novels. I have them all (in paperback) and one book of poems, which I found at a used book store over thirty years ago. I think he’s got mainly a cult following now, though it’s possible he is taught in academia. I really have no idea. I’ve never met anyone who knows him. They always go, “Who?” Geezus. :/ Anyway, I remember when I  saw Brautigan’s picture on the front page of the newspaper, with news of his suicide. He blew his brains out a la Hemingway, his lit hero. His decomposing body was found in his Bolinas house. It was estimated he’d been dead a month. It broke my heart.

Sinner

I guess you can say
I’m a sinner.

Drinking, and smoking,
and cursing,

kicking up my heals
to blow the blues,

all those things
a “good woman”
shouldn’t do.

I rambled a bit,
and gambled a bit,

and gave my soul
to rock and roll.

But I don’t repent my past.
I had a blast.

So, I suppose
you can call me
a goddamned sinner.

♠ ♠ ♠ ♠    Please, feel free to comment. :P

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Bukowski, Shakespeare, Dickinson, Plath

Cherry blossoms on the ground.I might be closing up this experimental blog soon. I’m growing bored with it.

I didn’t know how to work WP when I first got here, learned as I went along. Still don’t understand everything, but I got the basics down. I’m curious about the format list, but I haven’t experimented with it, see what happens. I have “standard” checked.

I understand how the media files work, how they are connected to the blog. In the beginning I didn’t know that if I erased an image (in the media section), it would disappear from the blog post. Now I know the media and the blog page (text page) are technically two separate files, and when I add an image, the image file, or media file, and text file, the blog page, get linked. So if you erase the image in the media file, you’ll get a blank space linked to your blog post. I also learned that images should be kept small before uploading to the media file, that even if I adjust the size of the image on the text page, the file size remains the same in terms of bytes. Larger files take longer to load, and a reader with a slow connection will have problems. I read that on some tech site.

I know. You don’t give a shit about that. But it’s interesting to me. I like learning things, especially on my own (autodidactically). Most teachers (or professors) left me flat. They didn’t tell me what the fuck I NEEDed to know. It made me crazy. I’d go to class (at Cal) all prepared to ask a question about a line or passage in the material we read–the assigned story, poem, or novel–and time and time again, the professor asked the question first, asked it of us; it was the topic of discussion for that hour. And I’m like, what the fuck? Why am I here if you are asking me the questions I already have, instead of giving me answers, information, knowledge? I don’t fucking know the answer, that is why I have this question. (I never shared this thought/feeling with any professor.)

But that’s the thing. There are no simple or singular answers when it comes to literature or an intellectual inquiry. But if the professor could’ve given me some information, something, anything, I might’ve been able to bounce off of that. I couldn’t bounce off a fucking void.

Hell, maybe it’s me. The theory was, which I believe was (is) Platonic: to teach, ask questions, which creates a dialectic.

That didn’t work for me. I need answers, then I can agree or disagree, or it might spark another idea for me. Being an English student studying literature at UCBerkeley was a struggle for me, who had insufficient experience in literary conversation, in intellectual discussion, in intelligent discourse. My time at the community college was like a crash course. Having gotten married at 16, I’d been in an isolated, ignorant void, with no contact to intelligent or intellectually curious individuals. I had a lot to learn, a long way to go. My ex used to call me a “mind fucker”, a term he got from the movie Serpico, and he ridiculed me for being curious and wanting to satisfy my need for knowledge. For Beauty, really. I still crave it.

Hell, that’s the story of my whole fucking life, a crash course and on my own, cuz ain’t nobody to lead or give a shit.

I’m just here talking to myself. “This is my letter to the world,/that never wrote to me.” I’m tired of just talking to my damn self. I’d like “the world” to write to me. Give me a thought, man. Ain’t’cha got no thoughts? What’s the point of writing in a fucking void?

For me, there are four crucial writers: Shakespeare, Bukowski, Dickinson, and Plath.  But, next to Mother Goose, Kerouac sparked the blaze–my love of literature.

Although I’ve been writing essentially my whole life, for myself, to myself, I was thirty when I got on this road, pursuing connection to a lit world, lit life. I’m 65 now (or will be on April 30), I’m a grandmother, and all I have (that matters to me) is one poem published by Ishmael Reed. And that was over 20 fucking years ago.

It’s my fault, mostly. I don’t do enough to promote myself. On the other hand, I want to be published, read, accepted, because I deserve it, not for any other reason. I want to create literature, not creative fucking writing.

It’s “my fault”, but it’s also Fate at the reins.

I’m listening to Cage the Elephant. Rock and roll inspires me, motivates me to write. It’s like pouring fuel, a combustible, juice, into the fire. So does jazz, and blues, and classic country, and bluegrass.

If I close this blog, this personal blog, I will eventually start another. Elsewhere. Sup’m different. But not as “Nobody”.

Shit, I totally know most of what I say goes over heads. (The allusions.) Or under the feet. Or armpit. Of the silent few who read this. I can only assume, so, I suppose I make an ass out of u and me.

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(About) Poetry and Me

Image of small turtle.

Turtle gets there, slowly, but surely.

I used to think Emily Dickinson lived a beautiful life, shut away in her room, writing poetry, secluded, solitary, reclusive. As a teenager, I thought, What a great way to live! For most my life I believed that. I envied it.

But, now I think she had a sad life. (With the exception of her devotion to poetry, and letters to family and friends.)

She is a great American poet, who created a unique style. Emily Dickinson was inherently a poet. She wasn’t/isn’t a poet because she wrote poetry, she wrote poetry because she was a poet–didn’t write to be, but wrote because she was.

Dickinson sent poems to Higginson, who was an editor for the Atlantic. She wanted to be published. He told her she wasn’t ready. But he was intrigued by her, and they stayed in touch for the rest of her life. (She was 32 when she sent him her first poems.) He helped publish her after she died, but he “corrected” her work, using conventional rules of writing. She’s most famous for using dashes for punctuation and capitalizing words unexpectedly. It didn’t dawn on him that she knew what she was doing. :?

Getting published was not as important to Dickinson as creating her art. She didn’t “write for the market”. Of course she wanted to be published, but not getting published didn’t make her give up writing.

Nothing wrong with writing for the market. Hell, if you can make a few bucks, or a few million–like Danielle Steel, Sydney Sheldon, Paul McMullan–well, cool. :/ But that isn’t creating art.

Alley Cat Book StoreI was invited to feature at Voz Sin Tinta earlier this month. I hadn’t stepped up to the mic in several months, and I was nervous about it. I even felt a little sick a few hours before the reading. My insecurity had kicked in. But, in the end, the reading went well. One gal said to me, “You fucking rock!”  :)Depiction of cute donkey with two thumbs up.

I do think my poetry rocks. Until insecurity kicks in. Then doubt kicks my ass.

This guy came up to me, after the reading, and he hugged me. He told me I was the only one there he was interested in hearing. Then he asked me if there was anyone like that in my life, and he seemed concerned. I had read You Make Me Sick (which I posted on my blog a couple months ago). When I read the first line, “Since you’re gone,/I feel free of fear,” I heard a few groans, and after I read the line, “This is how it feels/to be safe,” I heard the groans again. It felt and sounded like pity groans. :( I reassured the guy that it’s a muse, that there is no one like that in my life. (Not anymore.)

“So, it isn’t personal experience?” he asked. I said, “Well, some of it, but not all of it.”

My poetry isn’t 100 percent autobiography. I embellish, I exaggerate, and I invent. So, it isn’t about me. It’s a speaker who could be anybody. It’s art–art is a manifestation of the spirit of humanity, a representation of the human condition.

I’ve been watching videos of poetry readings at this cafe where I wanted to read. It has history. Some of the people who go up to the open mic look like home is some underpass somewhere. There’s a woman who shows up, and I happen to know she’s a delusional, manipulative, homeless nutcase. (I don’t want to expound. Let’s just leave it at that.) My heart sank when I realized she shows up regularly. She isn’t a writer herself; she reads out of a book, a poem written by someone else. Which is fine. I got no beef with that. Sometimes people do that. My issue is her. I don’t want to be where she is. When I realized she was following me around, I got creeped out, not to mention annoyed. I wonder if she heard me say I wanted to read there. Maybe she did, or maybe it’s just coincidence she goes there. I don’t know. But I don’t want to be where she is. I run into some of the poets who read there, poets I like. One of them looks like he’s a card short, but he writes some of the best poetry I’ve heard. He’s brilliant, really. But some of those people who read at this place aren’t poets. They’re playing the part, and they write trivial, trite, drivel. (Of course, this is my opinion. BUT, I know what I’m talking about.) I changed my mind about reading there. If an opportunity came up, I wouldn’t turn it down, but I’m not going there of my own volition.

I have sometimes tried watching poetry readings from UC Berkeley (UCTV). I’ve never lasted more than thirty seconds to a couple minutes. Time and time again, I’ve found them boring and pompous. I tried to enjoy this one poet, a poet older than I am, who’s “somebody”. I won’t name him. But he bored me too. I made myself listen for a couple minutes, because I knew him. (I met him many years ago.) He was so happy to be there at the podium, so proud of himself, all beaming and enthusiastic. He said he heard squirrels running on his roof, and so he wrote this poem. I thought, I’ll bet they were roof rats. I’ve heard roof rats, but I’ve never heard squirrels. That’s when I lived in Berkeley, in the early nineties. The landlord told me they were not squirrels, they were roof rats. He set out some d-Con, and sure enough a few days later I found a dead rat the balcony. I’m convinced this man heard rats running across his roof, and he wrote a sentimental poem about squirrels. Ha, :D that’s funny.

It isn’t easy to define art, what is art and what isn’t, because it’s subjective. I might hate what someone else loves, and vice versa. That’s just the way it goes.

I love and hate the poetry scene. Love it. Hate it. But I love poetry. And there are poets out there I like very much. And, hell, shit yeah I like getting positive feedback. I love that. <3 It’s encouraging.

I want to be published. There was a time it didn’t matter, but now it does. I will continue to write. I love it. But it isn’t enough. I want to be published. I have to find my way there.

I have another reading in May:
Adobe Books, 24th Street, Thurs, May 14, 6:30 – 7:30.
I will be one of four featured readers. I’m looking forward to it.

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Writers and Wannabe’s

Birch tree in winter.When I took my first creative writing class, at a community college, back in 1980, the class wasn’t crowded. We were a tiny group, less than a dozen, that returned each semester. But after a couple of years, it got bigger. One semester bam! it was packed.

Since I was kid, I’d written stories and poems, but just for myself. I knew I wasn’t a “real” writer, but I wanted to be. When I saw Jack Kerouac read from On The Road on the Steve Allen Show, I knew I wanted to grow up to be a writer. A writer like that, like him. Awesome.

I didn’t know who Kerouac was. In my home, no one knew much about anything. My mom, like anyone else, knew entertainment celebrities, of course, but she wouldn’t know a literary figure. Or even give a shit. Ever.

Hearing Kerouac read, I was mesmerized. I fell in love. Possibly with Kerouac (I was 9), certainly with the idea of writing like that. I felt he had some grand and deep understanding. I hoped when I grew up, I would too.

I forgot about Kerouac and On The Road. Not about my desire to write, just my seeing and hearing Kerouac read. Until decades later when I see him in a film clip. That jarred my memory. My god! I thought. I remember seeing this! Oh. my. god. It was Kerouac!

Kerouac’s name came up in my creative writing class. My teacher wasn’t impressed with him, but some students were. He was long gone from my memory. At least, on the surface. I wanted to know who this Kerouac was. I bought On The Road at a used book store. I read it and loved it. (I also love Big Sur. In a Kerouac documentary, Ferlinghetti says Big Sur is garbage. I don’t agree. It’s sad, though, because in Big Sur Kerouac is deteriorating physically and mentally. Booze got a grip on him; fame suffocated him.)

At the community college, a lot of folks didn’t think much of creative writing, as if creative writing were inconsequential. But I, and my creative writing classmates, loved it; we loved our class, our instructor, and our time together. For me, it meant everything.

The instructor didn’t expect much of anyone. He thought most people had more enthusiasm and ego than potential or talent. (He told me this.) But he was a good teacher. He didn’t discourage anyone. I learned a lot from him. But I still had a long way to go. (I’m still learning. I always will.)

I met Freddie the Freeloader at Cal. He’d won an Eisner. I asked if he’d give me advice. At first he refused, but he finally acquiesced. I showed him the piece of shit prose I wrote. I knew it wasn’t good, but that’s why I asked him for advice. His attitude was shitty, arrogant, his tone pejorative. “This is passive,” he said, sweeping the back of his hand down the page, glaring at me as if I’d committed some horrific faux pas. He may as well have said, “This is passive, you asshole.” I was embarrassed. I felt humiliated. Geezus, he didn’t have to make me feel like a worthless piece of shit. Notwithstanding that, it was an invaluable clue. Thanks, asshole. I’m truly fucking grateful.

At the community college anyone could take a writing class. But at Cal you had to submit samples of your writing. Not everyone made it in. I was talking to an instructor, and a student who didn’t make the list came in to ask if he’d reconsider. When the instructor refused, the student argued his case. The instructor wouldn’t budge. Finally, the guy drops to his knees and begs, hands clasped in supplication, whimpering. “Please, please, oh, please. I swear, I’ll show you I can write. I can do better. I swear.” The instructor was taken aback. So was I. I was embarrassed for the guy. And amused. I smile to recall it. :D

“All right, all right. Get up.” the instructor finally said. After the guy left, the instructor says to me, “He’s a terrible writer. He’s not going to get any better. I don’t believe that for a minute. But he wasn’t going to let up until I let him in. You saw him.” He shook his head then he slapped the air and goes, “Ah,” thoroughly disgusted.

I wonder if the fool is still writing. I wonder if he got an MFA. I wonder if he’s published. I wonder if he teaches. I hardly remember what he looked like. But I clearly remember his arrogance and his terrible writing. He believed he was a good writer. It isn’t impossible he might’ve improved. With time. With practice. Lots of it. If he were open to criticism. I doubt it. But even a lousy writer can get an MFA.

A professor at Cal told me they didn’t offer an MFA (back then). From her tone and attitude, I could tell MFA’s weren’t thought of as highly as MA’s. Years after I graduated, I learned they now offer an MFA. I know an excellent writer who got his MFA there. (I think he’s brilliant.) I wonder if the English department still considers an MFA inferior to an MA. I’m not in academia, so I wouldn’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me. But MFA’s generate revenue. That’s the bottom line.

As a grad student at San Francisco State, I didn’t take creative writing. I was still writing poetry. But I’d had it with creative writing classes. I hated the last class I took at Cal. It was the ONLY creative writing class I ever hated. The issue was the guest instructor. I’m not going to expound on that. Suffice it to say, I never wanted another creative writing class. Ever.

I’ve read about the proliferation of MFA programs around the country, and an increase in people interested in creative writing. I have noticed that everywhere so many people are interested in writing. There are writing workshops at art centers, cultural centers, health centers, senior centers, youth centers, community centers. There are writers (or wannabe’s) who meet to share, encourage, practice, critique. I’ve heard of a Meet-Up group who play “writing games” for “creative exercise”. (Good lord.) Everyone and their mother wants to write. I’ve read articles arguing for and against MFA’s and creative writing classes. Here’s a quote from one particular article:

The love-hate relationship between creative writing MFA programs and writers has not changed much since Kurt Vonnegut was playfully piqued by the emerging phenomenon of writing programs in the 1960s. He liked the attention and money, but doubted that writing fiction could be taught. 

Last year, N+1 Magazine persuasively schematized the path to publishing a novel as either ‘live in New York’ or ‘get an MFA’ and argued that, despite the cost in tuition and a powerful place in the publishing ecosystem, MFA programs have little effect on the quality of writing a student produces.

I think this increased interest in writing is narcissistic delusion more than anything else. A desire for fame, recognition, attention, applause. That’s my opinion. Literature is art. Talent is innate. Not everyone has it. Not everyone is a Raymond Carver, or a Robert Boswell. Shit. I half regret I didn’t major in creative writing. But I still write. Struggle with it. Alone. For myself first. Art is my pursuit. If I have talent, I’d like to be published. If not, well then, fuck me. Shit, I hope I’m not a wannabe.

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You Make Me Sick – a poem

Graphic of blue sky, yellow sun, pink clouds, and a flying bird.

Graphic by Estela.

You Make Me Sick

Now that you’re gone,
I feel free of fear.

I can relax.

It’s fabulous,
like easing down
into a luxurious
bubble bath.

My shoulders
fall back into place.

This is how it feels
to be safe.

A smile crosses my face.

I feel light as a finch.
The sky is a gorgeous blue.
I love living
without you.

You fucking bully.
You piece of shit.
You didn’t think I’d do it.

I may not know much,
but I truly know you.

Your civil face is bogus,
you vicious brute.
You crave a needy bitch

to feed your famished ego.

Fuck off, jack.
You make me sick.

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Strange Night – a poem

Graphic of yellow stars and a yellow half moon against a violet sky.

Graphic by Estela.

Strange Night

It’s a starry night.
I dream I sleep
on a bed of straw.
Crows fly across a yellow field,
cawing,
headed toward me.

The chair
in my room
is empty.

I saw you
sit there
in my dream.

Van Gogh's Starry Night

Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

The stars
look distorted,
blurred yellow orbs
vibrating in the violet sky.

I’m so mad,
I could cut off my ear.

I wish you were here.
But you’re a crazy cat.
I can’t have that.

Leaving you feels
like a self-inflicted wound,

like a bullet in my belly.

It’s a strange night.
The brilliant yellow moon
looks beautiful,
but a bit disturbed.

Convergence painting by Pollock.

Pollock’s Convergence.

You were like paint
splattered on canvas:
dynamic, intense,
unique, difficult
to decipher,

but definitely real.

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Christmas is Hell

This year, Christmas went all right. I envy people who get excited, people who say it’s their

Santa Homer Christmas display.

Photo by Estela.

favorite time of year. It isn’t my favorite time at all. It’s the worst. Every year, I brace myself, starting on November 1st. But, all in all, this one was as positive as it could be, given the particular circumstances of my life. But I’m not going to elaborate on that. Suffice it to say, for me, the Christmas season is Hell.

But I had a lovely Christmas morning. I walked into the living room, after I showered and dressed, and I sat down on the couch to change from slippers to shoes. I placed my foot over my knee to tie the shoelace, and I saw something wrapped in a Safeway paper bag next to the tv. I smiled. I said, “Is that a gift for me? You bought me a gift?”

“Yeah,” my son says.

I chuckled and said, “Wrapped in a paper bag?”

“Yeah. I didn’t get a chance to buy gift wrap,” he said, apologetically.

“I know. That’s all right.” I said. “Thank you. That was really nice of you. I’m sorry I didn’t buy any gifts. I’m just not good at that. I wanted to , but I was at a loss.” He nodded, like he understood. I hope he really does understand. But I had made fudge, and I made tamales. I baked a batch of cookies on Christmas Day. That was my way of giving–cooking and baking. I actually enjoy baking. Just simple stuff–like cookies, pies, coffee cake, pumpkin bread, zucchini and other such breads. But I’m not fond of cooking. I once was, but I lost the pleasure. (Post Freddie Freeloader. But that’s a story for another day.)

I told my son that I loved the gift–a book of photographs of Patti Smith, by Judy Linn, and Give My Love to London, a Marianne Faithfull CD, my two female rock and roll idols. He said, “I knew you would.” Then I told him I noticed he was making an effort to be mindful, and that to me that was a gift, and I thanked him for it. He took that in for a couple seconds, then responded with a little curmudgeonly joke. That makes me smile. :)

Christmas is stressful. We’re bombarded through media, advertising, crowds, and a palpable energy, both positive and negative. Some people are excited, some are happy, some are sad, some bitter, some grouchy, some frustrated, some worried, some harried. I feel anxiety. Every year, I dread this time of year, but I try to make the best of it. I meditate and pray, daily. I burn sage, sweetgrass, cedar, or copal. I close my eyes, take deep breaths, calm my grief, my anxieties, my regrets, my sense of helplessness and emotional need. Healing is an ongoing process. But I can’t make other people heal. That’s on them. So I have to be strong, courageous, and resilient. I remind myself to have compassion for us all. This year, it was just me and my son. I communicated with one daughter through text and email, but have no way to contact my youngest and my granddaughter. I don’t keep in contact with siblings or mother (who turned 91 a few days before Christmas and lives with my youngest sister). I regret it took me too long to distance myself from them, and I regret that I have to. I am crushed about my youngest daughter, and that I cannot be in touch with my beloved granddaughter.

In a perfect world, I would have my own house, and my children and my granddaughter would all come over. We would all have gifts under a beautiful Christmas tree. Everyone would cook or bake something. We would eat good food, have wine with our meal (well, not the 16 year old granddaughter, she’d have a Hansen’s natural soda). We’d enjoy Christmas treats, and converse happily, and there’d be laughter, and love, and joy; we’d sit near the tree and exchange gifts, and they would love what I got them (I would know what to get). And, hell, this is my fantasy, so let’s throw in a blazing fire in the fireplace, snow outside, because in this fantasy I live in New Mexico, and my children flew in for a few days, and I have a little terrier named Rosie and everyone is enjoying her.

Well, life is what life is. I can only do my best, and let it be.

Joe Cocker passed away. That was sad to hear. I remember the first time I saw him on tv. I thought it might’ve been on the Tom Jones Show, but maybe it was the Smothers Brothers, or, hell, maybe it was Ed Sullivan . It was in the sixties, anyway. Late sixties. I was like, “Man, he’s a great singer. Poor guy. I wonder what’s wrong with him?” There was nothing wrong with him. I felt so square when I learned it was just his style. His bluesy energy literally contorted his body, his arms, his hands, his face. That’s what I call “organic”. R.I.P, Joe Cocker, great blues rock singer.

Box Tops wrote The Letter, and it was great song, but, man, Joe Cocker made it even better. The great Leon Russell played piano. (Before he ended up on social security and lost to the world. After all that work, all those years, all that talent, possessing such genius? God bless Elton John for bringing him back.) I’m breaking my rule of not inserting vids in my blog. Check this out, man. Joe Cocker and Leon Russell. I love how cooly Russell does his magic.

Early this year, Phil Everly passed away. One of the first songs I remember loving was by the Everly Brothers. I was five years old when this song was a hit, and I sang, flat and out of tune:

♥Dree-ee-ee-ee-eem. Dream, dream, dream. When I want you. In my arms. When I want you. And all your charms. Whenever I want you, all I have to do, is dree-ee-ee-ee-eem. Dream, dream, dream.♥

Of course, I didn’t understand the sexual implications. But I sure got that the song was beautiful, and their voices were beautiful. And, sure, when I eventually saw them on tv, I had an innocent crush on his brother, Don. R.I.P Phil Everly.

Poor Won’t-Name-Him. He passed away on Christmas Day. Too bad the last time I saw him, nearly a year ago, he glared at me in a rage. We were acquainted, not really friends. I used to stop and talk with him, when I saw him on 24th Street, sitting outside a cafe with a cup of coffee, and when he’d see me, he’d call me over and I’d sit and have a chat. He was as cynical as I can be, had a dark sense of humor, and we seemed to have the same taste in poetry. After I wrote my love poem Creature, I showed it to him, and he just busted up, guffawed, in fact. I liked that. He even gave me unsolicited advice. He said, “You should change this to ‘come back’, maybe.”

“No,” I said, “it isn’t ‘come back.'” That would’ve changed the poem. She’s saying, “Don’t leave,” but she’s not going to say, “Come back” afterward. That tells me he didn’t understand who I am. Anyway, eventually, he started crossing the line, and I also began to see him as rather delusional. I could put up with his being delusional, but not his crossing the line. I stopped being friendly, stopped talking with him. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. Anyway, R.I.P., Won’t-Name-Him.

Rain drops on birch tree.

Rain drops on a birch tree. I thought the rain drops looked like tiny lights, or diamonds.

We are all spirits on an Earth Walk. It isn’t easy being human. It’s so very hard.

Rain. Ah, sweet rain. I have been happy to see the rain. It’s been a long drought.

 

 

 

 

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