More videos from my mom, yoga professional and amateur insect documentarian.
I wrote a found poem using the end words of Kathy’s poem “Marriage” from Ramshackle Houses & Southern Parables.
Stencil engraving on Yeti cup. My phlebotomy teacher LOVES Rick and Marty and LOVES the Pickle Rick episode so Mr. J. made this for him. Going to surprise him with it today 🙂
Day 12 no nicotine.
So last week I realized smoking wasn’t helping me release stress/all the annoying things that make me want to break windows but it was actually making me feel better about holding on to the stress and obsessing more. So now I don’t feel so bad about quitting smoking (the memories are better than the real thing and I want to go back to better days when smoking meant all the fun things but it never really did, it lied and made all the lies taste nice which is a really scummy thing to do). But now I need to figure out how to stop obsessing about the annoying things and turn my thinking power towards more positive places.
“We need a voice to call across the water, to warn ships; I’ll make one. I’ll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I’ll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I’ll make a sound that’s so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I’ll make me a sound and an apparatus and they’ll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life.”
She is an open jewelry box
singing, a wasp flutter
harmonizes with sibilance
against the garishness
of that tree’s
TOUCH ME AND DIE!
One eye is the fractured blue of an
abalone shell, the other cormorant
shine stopped dead,
wings helpless against her temple.
The alabaster lid of her skin
splits like a poached egg,
bold entrails drip gracefully and
she takes the apple,
doesn’t care a corpse cannot eat.