Blog,
how are you? Thank you for putting up with me. My mom got me basil plant and yesterday we got out toes done. I am thankful for her.
I am thankful for you, blog.
I am a handful sometimes.
I want to be held in the morning.
Let me try to write you my bewilderment:
If a friendship is any good
it will always be good.
Last night I dreamt my friend Thomas and I ate sandwiches.
I miss Thomas, I love him.
I am glad he is in my dreams, small offering.
Blog, when was the last time you gave someone something wrapped in your hands?
When was the last time you released darkness to light,
the last time you arrived late like a lost and buried sound?
The last time you walked barefoot and thought of a song
to keep your steps soft.
The era when you were afraid of waking
the gentle body sleeping beside you.
The era when love arrived at night
to give you back your body, to sleep soundly.
When was the last time you received flowers ?
When was the last time you asked someone if you could kiss them goodbye?
When was the last time you sat on a friends porch, just to say hello. Hello.
Hello, my friend.
Hello, blog.
Wednesday, July 22, 2020
Monday, July 20, 2020
"The outflow that comes from giving of oneself opens the door to spiritual unfoldment..." -- Harold Klemp
Blog,
is our love reciprocal?
You might not be able to love me right now, but you can still break my heart.
Blog, what heartbreak brought you to me, my voice?
When did loss become having more?
Blog, this love is permeable, and I love that.
Lately the wind has made me feel, bare knuckle boxing.
Lately the water has made me feel, holding me under, pushing me back up to let go of my blue oxygen.
When you're good and plenty it is hard to trust anything is real.
If you're good and plenty cry into the chest of someone you might be able to love
but today you are just as happy as you are in love,
and cry to a musician you love but you haven't told them you love.
Take me in your arms, soft monument of motion, eon-long, particles.
Blog, how do you wear your alabaster? What empty room do you sing to?
Blog, hand me down your promises and failures.
is our love reciprocal?
You might not be able to love me right now, but you can still break my heart.
Blog, what heartbreak brought you to me, my voice?
When did loss become having more?
Blog, this love is permeable, and I love that.
Lately the wind has made me feel, bare knuckle boxing.
Lately the water has made me feel, holding me under, pushing me back up to let go of my blue oxygen.
When you're good and plenty it is hard to trust anything is real.
If you're good and plenty cry into the chest of someone you might be able to love
but today you are just as happy as you are in love,
and cry to a musician you love but you haven't told them you love.
Take me in your arms, soft monument of motion, eon-long, particles.
Blog, how do you wear your alabaster? What empty room do you sing to?
Blog, hand me down your promises and failures.
Saturday, July 18, 2020
"Love gratefully. This expands your heart into a greater vessel which can hold yet more love." -- Harold Klemp
Blog,
today I felt sad and cried over some flowers.
A snapping turtle breathing above water is a sincere vibration. If anyone asks.
Blog, if anyone asks, set fire to your reflection and run away.
You don't have enough time to scuff all the mirrors.
If language want shape, fling your saliva. It'll pan out.
At some point you were in love. Would you go back?
At some point you have been asked to return to your childhood home, however you define it. Will you go back?
Blog, how do you address me? Have you come up with something better?
You don't have to tell me. I don't think I'll ever read my poetry to my mother.
Go slow. Some recipes require you let the food continue to cook after removing the heat.
Moonlight is serious!
I was asked if I've seen the comet. I have not.
Last night I was woken up by thunder. That was good.
My familiar faces are the private relationships I have with grass stripped of its remarkable ordinariness, a soccer field.
Whatever direction is west if the roads all turn. I can't figure out which way to head towards, when I type my best friend's address into my phone.
I'm tired from always saying the things I don't want.
I want to garden.
I want to pick basil and make pesto and use it all in one meal.
If you're scared, stay up until the sunrise imposes something on you. It is good to do things, from time to time. The morning always smells like morning. Be awake for it.
Feel like you are on top on the earth for once.
Want things. Little things.
Shave your head if you think that will bring you peace.
Read a complicated book just to figure out that you haven't exhausted what you can do with your mouth.
Hang onto a contradiction. That's praxis.
If anyone asks, you feel afraid of feel how good it can be.
The coming pleasure.
today I felt sad and cried over some flowers.
A snapping turtle breathing above water is a sincere vibration. If anyone asks.
Blog, if anyone asks, set fire to your reflection and run away.
You don't have enough time to scuff all the mirrors.
If language want shape, fling your saliva. It'll pan out.
At some point you were in love. Would you go back?
At some point you have been asked to return to your childhood home, however you define it. Will you go back?
Blog, how do you address me? Have you come up with something better?
You don't have to tell me. I don't think I'll ever read my poetry to my mother.
Go slow. Some recipes require you let the food continue to cook after removing the heat.
Moonlight is serious!
I was asked if I've seen the comet. I have not.
Last night I was woken up by thunder. That was good.
My familiar faces are the private relationships I have with grass stripped of its remarkable ordinariness, a soccer field.
Whatever direction is west if the roads all turn. I can't figure out which way to head towards, when I type my best friend's address into my phone.
I'm tired from always saying the things I don't want.
I want to garden.
I want to pick basil and make pesto and use it all in one meal.
If you're scared, stay up until the sunrise imposes something on you. It is good to do things, from time to time. The morning always smells like morning. Be awake for it.
Feel like you are on top on the earth for once.
Want things. Little things.
Shave your head if you think that will bring you peace.
Read a complicated book just to figure out that you haven't exhausted what you can do with your mouth.
Hang onto a contradiction. That's praxis.
If anyone asks, you feel afraid of feel how good it can be.
The coming pleasure.
Sunday, July 12, 2020
"This is a warring universe. To survive here, one must know its ways." -- Harold Klemp
Blog,
I wrote this poem in the notes of my phone for you:
A magician values their hands more than anything else.
Be what the tongue illuminates,
as if our sun
were something more than the star we are closest to.
Heterosexuality be like: the girl I love online.
Queerness be like: how to love online.
Blog, you have promised me astral temptation.
Blog, you rough around the edges tenderness.
You dangerous mission on a loose joint.
You everlasting open tab.
Blog, I am not the first person to say:
all we can really do is map god.
I wrote this poem in the notes of my phone for you:
A magician values their hands more than anything else.
Be what the tongue illuminates,
as if our sun
were something more than the star we are closest to.
Heterosexuality be like: the girl I love online.
Queerness be like: how to love online.
Blog, you have promised me astral temptation.
Blog, you rough around the edges tenderness.
You dangerous mission on a loose joint.
You everlasting open tab.
Blog, I am not the first person to say:
all we can really do is map god.
Friday, July 10, 2020
"An unselfish dream, goal, or service can help us to the height of spiritual living." -- Harold Klemp
Blog,
poetry loves thresholds.
You are a threshold, so am I.
You play with me, too, blog.
Last night I dreamt about a friend
I wanted to hold me.
Their partner told me about their life,
and I let him make me a meal.
poetry loves thresholds.
You are a threshold, so am I.
You play with me, too, blog.
Last night I dreamt about a friend
I wanted to hold me.
Their partner told me about their life,
and I let him make me a meal.
Tuesday, July 7, 2020
"Contemplate sweetly on love, and the wisdom of God shall find you." -- Harold Klemp
Blog,
I have taken time from you. For you.
You who are nothing and you who is everyone I love.
My mom told me she had nightmares about me last night. I wanted to cry.
Last night I dreamt someone I haven't talked to in a long time.
The last time I saw them I was on my bike, we both turned down the same street,
I barely recognized them.
Blog, I am soaking in Minnesota, letting it soak me in.
The first part of the summer has been so warm
the lake is already filling up with algae.
A man at the beach told me May was record hot.
I have been letting myself rest from writing to you, blog;
rest from opening my computer;
rest from responding to emails.
I went to Wisconsin, blog.
It was nice to flicker in and out phone service.
Blog, I admit
I have been mourning my dad's death, threes years ago--what he could have been and what he was.
The times I felt real care and affection.
The times I felt that he shared things with me, ordinary things.
These are ordinary things, blog:
Crying after sex.
Putting your head on someone's lap.
It is nice to lie down, and that can just be that.
It is nice to be present with my mother,
with my friends here,
with the lake,
with the cherry tomatoes I check each morning.
It is nice taking walks to drink coffee, when I wake up.
It is nice sleeping with the window open, waking up to the garbage truck, sprinklers, loud thunder.
It is nice receiving letters, even though I have been writing back slowly.
It was nice going to Costco and an outlet mall.
Blog, I just wanted to write you. I didn't really want to write about anything in particular.
It seems ordinary now
to see the dipper every night, but it still gets me, blog.
It still gets me that I am looking at a portal,
and that one day this planet might be a blip someone sees in a thousand years.
I still remember the first summer I binge watched a tv show.
I am happy to remember something so ordinary.
I have taken time from you. For you.
You who are nothing and you who is everyone I love.
My mom told me she had nightmares about me last night. I wanted to cry.
Last night I dreamt someone I haven't talked to in a long time.
The last time I saw them I was on my bike, we both turned down the same street,
I barely recognized them.
Blog, I am soaking in Minnesota, letting it soak me in.
The first part of the summer has been so warm
the lake is already filling up with algae.
A man at the beach told me May was record hot.
I have been letting myself rest from writing to you, blog;
rest from opening my computer;
rest from responding to emails.
I went to Wisconsin, blog.
It was nice to flicker in and out phone service.
Blog, I admit
I have been mourning my dad's death, threes years ago--what he could have been and what he was.
The times I felt real care and affection.
The times I felt that he shared things with me, ordinary things.
These are ordinary things, blog:
Crying after sex.
Putting your head on someone's lap.
It is nice to lie down, and that can just be that.
It is nice to be present with my mother,
with my friends here,
with the lake,
with the cherry tomatoes I check each morning.
It is nice taking walks to drink coffee, when I wake up.
It is nice sleeping with the window open, waking up to the garbage truck, sprinklers, loud thunder.
It is nice receiving letters, even though I have been writing back slowly.
It was nice going to Costco and an outlet mall.
Blog, I just wanted to write you. I didn't really want to write about anything in particular.
It seems ordinary now
to see the dipper every night, but it still gets me, blog.
It still gets me that I am looking at a portal,
and that one day this planet might be a blip someone sees in a thousand years.
I still remember the first summer I binge watched a tv show.
I am happy to remember something so ordinary.
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