The Thing with Feathers

"the thing with feathers" is what Emily Dickinson called Hope

But methinks it's made of rocks you soared above

and then swooped down

allowed them to dazzle you

applying the precision vision of a hawk

with the time to scour scree fields

on a hike one sunny September

raising up broad shoulders that bear profound loads

hoofed piles of rocks down a mountain.

and that one rock, especially jaggy and with just a sprig of goat hair

so it could remind us

what was I supposed to remember?

Bare shoulders? Cashmere?

Mountain goats or a summit?

Views or descents?

But that wasn't it.

Recognition not yet flashing...

Was there a note on the back of my hand,

a thread tied 'round my finger,

an Expo marker phrase on my mirror?

Perhaps there was nothing but a golden glint

in your eye

the memory of which

was light as a feather

with wisdom of 1861

or 2005

a dog ear in time

creasing the distance

bending across an event horizon

to now

2020

a time that confounds

all expectations.

And yet?

Hope--or perhaps the trust that it will all be okay-- is a rock

solid as this friendship,

especially when we are

shooting the shit in a room.

Comments

Where'd the monkeys in my hair go?

I promise I will post Wednesdays' Weirdos again next week, but the pictures for this week got trapped on my camera with a dead battery. Sorry. I suck. Instead I'll tell you a drinking story. We were in St. Louis visiting for the holidays and a rare opportunity to get annihilated with my girlfriends presented itself. I started out with two beers while I was waiting for the girls with Rob's friends. Then, when we got to the fancy-pants bar I switched to whiskey on the rocks. I'm at sea level so I think I can drink like a champ. Hmmm. After about three of these and I-don't-remember-how-many shots, I switched back to beer. Damn, I'm bright. At some point in the evening I realize that we're in a bar that used to be my favorite bar in the whole world. It was called Tangerine then. They had Go Go dancers on the bar and let you climb on it and had hand shaped chairs so your butt got held. They had trucker night where you got your drinks in mugs. They ha...

Dear Book Pimp

So I wrote this book and I think it's pretty decent. That's the feedback I'm getting anyway, which is bitchin' really since I have a degree in Education, NOT writing. Plus, this is my first try, so really I should be happy, right? But, turns out writing the book is maybe the easy part. The publishing is another story. You have to find a Literary Agent. To do this, you have to write a 1-3 page letter to many literary agents to convince them to read a sample chapter. Send it with a Self addressed stamped envelope (SASE) and wait. there's more but I'm already experiencing a high level anxiety just writing about this part. In my letter, I'm supposed to explain who I am, what my book's about, why I'm qualified to write it, why its sicky illy good, who'll read it, and on and on. AHHHHHhhhhh! This shit scares me. Also, I'm supposed to be witty, clever, literary, and junk. Oh and explain a 300 page book in a sales pitch. I'm not a frea...

Past tense

I work with this really kickass lawyer. She's been all crazy over this guy lately. He worked for probation. Past tense. Did you see it? Over the weekend he killed himself. Enter past tense, the unwelcome jerk. And I feel soooo terrible. And guilty. Because I tried it to. I talked about it a little in this post . Try #17 and on. That's where I talk about it. A little. And now when someone kills themselves, I feel guilty. Like what I did when I was 17 somehow makes me responsible for everyone who ever does it. Like because I tried it, I should know how to fix it. But there are tons of recovering drug addicts that can't tell you how to get sober. There are great thinkers that can't explain their ideas. And the fact is, no one can explain suicide.

Wrap your head with this material...

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