This has nothing to do with this old old house, except that I just found these quick poems that I wrote way way back in February 2013, and am posting them here, if for no other reason that to remind myself to keep writing.
It is raining hard enough to
remind me to look outside.
The rain is almost as loud as
that place, that space, that time
when everything was finally ok. That time
when everything was going to be ok.
It wasn’t, you know.
I imagine how it is there.
How the ocean beats, the wind sings.
How my nose gets cold,
but never ever my inside.
How different things feel there.
How the earth springs
under my feet.
How the salty air
staves my hunger.
How soft the absence of being needed.
I wanted to talk to you
without being interrupted by
dog, cat, child, kitchen timer.
But I don’t know where to start
and I start at all the wrong places.
TV sounds good.
I keep feeding the fish.
Not sure what I expect from them.
Endless poop hangs from their butts.
They keep eating and I make myself busy at work.
My heart pounds. My toes are cold.
I get nothing done.
I want to feed the fish again.
Open the jar, pinch the dead powdered fish between my fingers.
Drop it in the water.
The stupid fucks don’t stop eating.
They’ll die if I let them.
It feels like progress.