Too busy to write | 17 January 2007

Too busy to write? Not really. I really have no excuse for my laziness when it comes to writing lately. The holidays flew by, and I was extremely busy, out every night in Chicago.

School was supposed to start yesterday, but an ice storm canceled classes for two and a half days. Now it’s just wait.

I dreamt of you the other night, real life, my husband and your wife, as if we were all friends, hanging out to watch a Bears game.

And wouldn’t it be lovely to be in each other’s lives if only for entertainment.

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I want to remember | 29 January 2007

Writing goals for spring semester — I promised I would write in here more, daily. Inspiration for poems.

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I want to remember the dog hurling toward us, ahead of a truck, the Oh-God feeling that he was coming to attack us, that he was twice the size of you, and I’d witness yet another dog fight. But then I realized, its owner was following in a pick-up truck. This bizarre way to “walk” one’s dog, and the relief felt when it hit us, and just kept running.

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Life with Mike is good. We cook together, take walks, share each other’s separate lives. I still don’t feel married in some ways. Life is simple and easy with him. We don’t fight.

There is a world between the trees | 1 February 2007

There is a world between the trees, scattered along the boulevard. Wanting it to be as real as the stop sign on the corner, wanting a hand to hold onto the handlebars. This is when the neighbors laughed. Body of gold. When the time came for the dogs to be let out, they were let out. Someone jumped in bed with someone else. The tulips turned yellow.

Dreaming about the end of the world | 3 February 2007

Dreaming about the end of the world, and somehow you’re in it. Why are you showing up lately? Always, this awareness that we can’t be together. You were you but thinner. I wanted all of you, but you had to leave. Candy coins in different flavors, my ticket to the subway, trying to get back to you, where is the end of all of this?

Magic, a washer, a leaf stuck in the dog’s fur. Happiness. How you’re not here, and haven’t been. Writing words that don’t make sense…

I want to remember standing at the back door in a white robe, watching Belle walk through the yard, her scent alive as she is, as I am. Who holds the key?

Who breaks the stone? | 15 February 2013

Popa’s “Give Me Back My Rags” feels like my Rhetoric poems. The harsh voice. I like these poems a lot more than the first ones in the book. They remind me of Jeffrey McDaniel’s voice.

I want to take the you and shove it inside of me. It’s my you at times, the way I want to hate it, the need to, just to not be indifferent, just to keep “him” here. If I could throw you across the room, would you land in the mirror and look back at me? Who breaks the stone that skips across the lake?