Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, February 3, 2018

In the middle of our early morning rituals

In the middle of our early morning rituals, the moon fell into eclipse. Blood red shades. From the front door we watched the process— the unfolding dark: my son, my father, and I.

Even though he is seven, my son’s weight remains manageable, a light burden to carry downstairs and across the house, so I held him close to watch the disappearing moon. He wrapped his arms around me tight, still half asleep, whispering I love you into my ear. Watching me watch the moon.

Trying to catch up with flow of the past expectations. In a bluntly honest fashion. Staring at a blank page until a sense of snow blindness tricks the pupil, constricting the lens.

Looking for solace in Sylvia Plath's journals—that scratchy rhythm, obsessive and demanding want for writing. Parallel that intensity towards A.'s insistence towards M.

As the intoxication of hunters, sleeping fireside after the afterwards, beyond the rifle shot. Collapse of prey.
                                                  Wounded bear. Fallen deer.

Final Observations for January

1. curve of his neck in winter, calculating arithmetic

2. an unopened invitation left on the bureau mirror

3. bar of apricot soap still half wrapped in tissue

4. after midnight, his drawn out sigh slowly released into my hands,

5. that sudden epiphany exposed

6. with all the bedroom windows opened

7. she circles her rug-bed three times, then settles down, tail curled underneath

8. unwashed plates cluttering the kitchen sink

9. our neighbor's house across the street—his bedroom light switches on

10. bleached sheets hung out to dry in my grandmother's backyard

11. bowl of uncooked rice

12. screendoor springing back against the house without a warning

13. a tarnished coin in my back pocket

14. —pull of slow moving train across the roadway, heading toward a Blood moon

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Without True Cohesion

New ideas were slow in formation this week. Selfdoubt still plagues even now after so much personal development of style and achievements with writing over the past few years.

Furthermore, a damn popsong keeps filtering through my head, throwing my concentration off from my warm room project—the song’s meter mangles the sought-out rhythms and harmony for the verse, altering the patterns I want to use— makes my words clutter, fall offkey, falter.

Adding to my frustration: I cannot bend the poem to suit the selected persona—his voice runs counter to my own: confident, angry, rebellious, defiant, hints of respect (when he feels it is earned) … everything I develop for this new voice, for this personality crumbles into further unnecessary fractures without a sense of connections, without true cohesion… the poem inches forward, when once it galloped…

Probable Manuscript Titles
• 1913
• 1913: The Warm Room
• Warm Room, Open Window, Unmade Bed
• the unmade bed translated
• river/fractured
• fracture(s)
• suspended world
• remains of an uncalm world
• the wild green outside
• nervous rookery

Saturday, January 6, 2018


Midweek I gained the perfect idea for revving up this sleeping blog—but within a few hours, distractions erased any beginning phrases and paragraphs. I even weeded out the back garden, cleared out dead sabers of sleeping irises, all in the hopes of charging up a new idea, a casual commentary for development.


The blank page stares back: a grass field frosted over, trapped in a limbo, a paralysis of expectation.

What do the following items have in common?

• lit match / unlit match
• crumbs of bread loaf
• radio static
• quoted line from Chaucer, stripped from a notebook
• slow ache along the lower back
• open book
• closed book
• unread newspaper
• hands cusped near your face