Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Psalm #14

I read grand words about who I am.  I'm your child.  I have a purpose.  I should strive for perfection, even knowing it is unobtainable.  How can I, when my basic needs aren't met?  I have enough to eat, if all I need is calories.  I have shelter, but for how long?  I have a gift of caring, with no one to care for.  My mind is unique, but how, towards what purpose, can I use it?  I have to trust, to step blindly, when I haven't trusted wisely, when I've tripped over my own feet.  There is a way, a path, made for me, only me.  Why isn't it lit?

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

Things I'd Probably Like More If I Didn't Hate You (Abridged)

  • You
  • People
  • People who kind of look like you
  • White people
  • White people who kind of look like you
  • Democracy
  • Baseball
  • Birthdays
  • Church
  • China
  • Christmas
  • Cats
  • G. Love
  • Money
  • Mangoes
  • Musicals
  • Mango-based musicals
  • Walmart
  • Writing
  • Women’s sports
  • School
  • Sleep
  • Socks
  • Sobriety
  • Socialism
  • Sunshine
  • Offices
  • Orifices
  • America
  • Fresh air
  • Family

Tuesday, April 14, 2015


Are we concentric circles with God as our common focus?
Are we loci in ellipses with a constant motion around the foci of God and the other, with predictable patterns of apodeus and perideus?
Are we squiggles lacking pattern, looking for the point that is God?
Are we parabolas coming from nothingness, approaching God, maybe even touching God, and returning to nothingness?
Are we spirals beginning at the point that is God and slowly and infinitely leaving God's presence?
Are we individual points, infinite and unmoving, with or without a point that is God?
Is God infinite, individual points, with us the points lost among God?
Are we nothingness, with God as the only point?
Are we at right angles to God, connected by a knowable line?
Are we so close that God and we are the same point?
Are there points?

Tuesday, April 7, 2015


Life feels like a jigsaw puzzle done by a little kid who is just figuring out how to do jigsaw puzzles.  You get crammed together with the other pieces, put into position, whether you fit or not.  It’s uncomfortable, even painful, as one of those pieces.  You feel as if this omnipotent, demonic little one will never manage to snap you into your proper place.

I moved recently, from one town to a smaller one right by it.  I was happy to leave the house where I lived, on a rutted, hard dirt road that jarred the tailbone when biking.  Housemates were intrusive, the live-in landlord was unpredictable, everything was a steep hill (and occasional asthma attack) away.  I left for an apartment on an in-town farm, with nice flat roads, no roommates, and a landlady who should be cast in bronze.  I was happy when moving day came around, despite loathing the process of moving.  As I left my old place for the final time, I looked out over an incredible view of the Sandias floating above the Albuquerque nightline.  I breathed in and out and headed off.  

It hit me as I turned from my road.  Where I was going and where I wanted to be were so close to each other, and where I wanted to be wasn’t where I was going.  I could have turned one way and been one place in a couple of minutes, but I wasn’t welcome.  I could have turned another way, and gone someplace at least interesting, but it was a ways away, and I was using someone else’s means of movement.  It’s a feeling that’s lingered.  I’ve said this before in a different context--you rarely get what you want.  I’m being just a little vague here, but I feel directionless, so it seems appropriate.

This is melancholy.  It combines elements of wistfulness, longing, regret, depression, and doubt.  You’re not supposed to be here, but you’ve nowhere else to go.  You haven’t given up hope, but you don’t know what to hope for.  Others can’t read you, because you can’t read yourself.  The old is tiresome, the new is unpromising.  You’re at a loss.

I’m here, and I probably should be here, at least right now.  Meanwhile, I need to find a way to move--in some direction.

Tuesday, March 31, 2015


I'm writing this to see if I'll like it.
I don't know if you'll like it,
so why should your feelings
be a consideration?

I'm writing this to find out
if there's a reason to expose myself
to your base adjudications.

I'm writing this because
there's nothing better I can do.

I'm asking you a question.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


It's an odd day,
snow-shaped and sunny,
the quarters are cramped,
the water is foul,
there's a relic, a relict
swimming on the ground,
the leftover,
steaming in place,
a clinger,
and it's all hopeless,
but for the close-minded.
Just smile and grimace
here at the end.

Saturday, March 7, 2015


I'm here in my bedroom.
There's a spider next to my head.
I think it's a brown recluse.
I don't know what to do.
On the one hand,
I don't like killing.
On the other hand,
I don't like mass necrosis.
But I kind of like spiders.
But I don't like pain.
And I don't like dying.
I have a lot to think about.
Her name is Dulcelina.