maggie- the new renoir

a knot between clumsy fingers,
Maggie clenches the crayon tight
before she presents what she has drawn to me:

stretching mountains and pastel rabbits
sleep on a gritty construction paper bed.

twelve years of instruction and praise pass
before her grip
loosens.

charcoal pencils are drawn like pistols,
encouraging her tired elementary doodles
to transform into animated depictions
of the present.
i can see, in her teenage face,
the sanguine color of established passion.

i would never admit it-
not in hushed tones during dinner
or while driving over rivers
over radio noise
how proud i am to see my sister,
the artist,
emerge.

passion pit in clifton park

five years past driving with my dad
eight past fridays at friendly's
seventeen past crying about a bee-stung thumb
and all i have earned
is an x-less hand.

getting what you want

i feel bad for the part of me
that likes being bored
and existential
(even if my tongue won't admit it.)
hello, new york

mini cupcake poems

exhaustion creeps into limbs
that feel light with aerobics.
greet an easy sleep
before a quiet storm.

women ice their bodies
to numb difficulties.

red raw soles resting on the futon
show that winter kissed you goodbye
only days earlier.
still april air
and the laughter of girls
called home
allow you to press the night
on the danish scarf
you pinned to the wall
the last time you felt stable

drafts 5

sin destinario unless noted otherwise.

drove on highways (maine), lived alone and fed/didn't feed myself, filed my own taxes, drove with directions to new places, job interviewed in the city, flew outside of the country, ate more vegetables, ran

i want to know that i'm part of the bigger meaning for you. that after the drinks, and the assignments, the birthdays, and the doctor appointments, i'm the sweet core that makes hard things bearable and the good better because they can be shared

i live in a house where there are no printers but plenty of mouse traps

feeling sick but not lonely

duality in:

 meaning of today

and presence on this blog.

i have been

i have been you.
content but not enthused
surprised but not intrigued.
the way adult lips turn up
when a child says something purely true.
yes, i have been you.
sitting pretty on a couch
legs tied
television on
apathy making the time useless,
the company replaceable.
how many times have i been you?
i have been
distant and brash,
the voice that never returns calls,
an interface even,
but never have i doubted
love.

where i have been

where i am now

measuring the distance is trivial;
it's mere existence holds significance.