saturday morning music

im sitting at my desk. there are big windows on two sides and outside the snow is coming from every direction, including, it seems, from below, so its really like being in a glass box on the outgoing end of a snow machine.
the flakes are enormous. doilie size. you could set a proper tea party with them.
doilies. theres something my generation has not embraced.
Im eating tomato soup again. also managed to spill it on myself again.
i should probably stop eating tomato based products.
but im too cozy/lazy to go out and get food and thats the quickest edible item i have in the cupboards.
which says something since i don't have a microwave and soup involves a stove.
but its delicious with rosemary ground on top. dried this summer from our garden and carefully transported from longisland.
my ipod just shuffled onto a sweet song that couldn't be more perfect for the day, the weather, my thoughts...
sometimes i get a little scared of my ipods perceptive powers...

the sound of separation

I am in the living room
thick socks pulled up to my knees
blankets draped over my shoulders
pillows piled onto my lap and underneath it all
the sweatshirt you wore when you came to visit
i've washed it since then
only because i was wearing it when the tomato soup i was heating jumped out of the pot
the room is very dark besides a single strand of white lights 

draped over the mantle

i never thought i would have a mantle in my first apartment
outside my window illuminated snowflakes move like a flock 

through the circle of light from a streetlamp

first frantic in flight and then floating suddenly in place 

when the wind dies
tonight i am floating in place
in a holding pattern with nothing to hold on to 

this house is full of extremes

it is either my sanctuary or my cell
the radiator either scorches off skin as you pass or remains petulantly cold

the burner features two setting: smolder or blow torch
the shower offers glacial springs in the morning and circle of hell in the evening
the downstairs neighbors are either so quiet i wonder if they've died
or they are stomping through the house screaming 

slamming doors so hard my medicine cabinet floats open
i might have thought i'd left it that way by mistake but i was standing there one night
toothbrush frozen in my mouth watching white spittle slide down my chin in the mirror 

listening to her scream his name
then the pause. the slam. the slow opening.
my mother called today to say she'd signed the papers

the final thread between them snapped so quietly

you might have thought it a peaceful affair

had you missed the sound of eleven years of separating

all the other fibers of their lives torn apart

tonight i turned the shower on and let it run 
waiting for the water to come down from a boil

i tried to write to you about everything

but stopped when i realized you haven't written back to my last note

and even though  i could hear you say you always want to know

it was drowned out by the steady sound of separation
when i finally stepped into the water
it was passing over perfect on its way to cold

so i rolled myself in from both ends like a scroll

trying to fit into the lukewarm hollow of the water
not long ago we stood in my shower at the same turning point

water streaming off your lips into my mouth

doesn't everyone try

to will the warmth to hold out

dreading the moments when the waters off 

and we can't find a thing to wrap around us.

ashes & wine

fine frenzy, creator of the beautiful and wrenching "almost lover" proves shes not a 1 hitter with this quiet heartquake of a song


And for your visual stimulation, some of the most remarkable photographs from Gregory Colbert's life portfolio, titled Ashes and Snow... is he technically commercial? probably. is his work technically stunning? absolutely.

it is a talent and a curse

to know exactly what someone wants you to say...
to know exactly who they want you to be.
which is maybe why i felt so much for this poem.

After the Pyre

It turns out, what keeps you alive 

as a child at mid-century 

following your parents from burning 

village to cities on fire to a country at war 

with itself and anyone 

who looks like you,

what allows you to pass through smoke, 

through armed mobs singing the merits of a new regime, tooth for a tooth,
liberation by purification, and global 

dissemination of the love of jealous gods, 

coup d'etat, coup de grace, and the cooing of mothers 

and doves and screaming men 

and children caught in the pyre's updraft,

what keeps you safe even among your own, 

the numb, the haunted, the maimed, the barely alive,

tricks you learned to become invisible, 

escapes you perfected, playing
dead, playing 
stupid, playing blind, deaf, weak, strong, 

playing girl, playing boy, playing native, foreign, 

in love, out of love, playing crazy, sane, holy, debauched,

playing scared, playing brave, happy, sad, asleep, awake, 

playing interested, playing bored, playing broken, 

playing "Fine, I'm just fine," it turns out,
. .
now that you're older 

at the beginning of a new century, 

what kept you alive 

all those years keeps you from living.

-Li Young Lee