How do they miss the crucifixion inhering in Picasso's The Old Guitarist. I remembering giving the guns away.
The ghosts behind the things we do cautiously revealing themselves, as if new to these coordinated games of chance we insist are life.
38 Special songs. Side roads on which we were only briefly distracted.
It wasn't a supply closet really, it was a storage closet for the activities department and I remember staring at a row of "Happy New Year" hats, silver bands of glitter dimly sparkling. Strangers who become guests in our mouths. Remember when I said remember when and you said nope before I even finished.
We'll get a dog, we'll rediscover the part of us that is dog. Bells ring deep in the cistern. Leafless.
How sincere Tom Cochrane was singing Lunatic Fringe! Who has the secret book that tells us how to be happy. In a dream, my daughters point to gray skies in which a single hawk executes narrowing circles, shredding a scrolled message with its claws, the scraps falling on our shoulders like snow.
You will walk until you die, said the women who were my teachers, and then you will walk some more and after that we will not say. In those days, I really liked the idea that there was a secret to be discovered, a mystery to be solved, a prize to be won.
Like honeysuckle blossoms adrift in puddles, I was severed from intention and thus from possibility.
Who will free us or go with us. My father in vast darkness whispering "it was only a cathedral, never the Lord."
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