That we feel the wind, but cannot see it, does not make it analogous to God... Beauty drops away from it as you smear all the colours together into one homogeneous smudge.

Molecules of air rush back and forth attempting to correct unbalanced densities all over the world; you breeze across my uncovered body, disturbing the hairs on my head. You are my God.

3753 Cruithne, discovered October 10th, 1986. Despite your 1:1 orbital resonance with that of the Earth, your paths do not cross and the 20° tilt of your orbit promises we will not perish together, but in my mind I am with you and you are with me, in the vacuum of space, comforting one another.

Sweeping, arresting sorrow,
Which halts you in your tracks,
To the point that tomorrow approaches an event horizon
Beyond which everything ceases to affect you, the observer.

Despair, thou shalt,
For neither mercy nor reason command thee.

There is only a young bird, a repeated song, a long commute,
and phone call after unsettling phone call.

True love is friendship.

True love is willingness to die for someone.



True love is willingness to live for someone.

An anvil cloud walks across the sky, a giant, electricity pulsing through its body visibly as sparking spider veins of yellow-gold, orange. He seems determined, but I'm not sure where he's going.

Perusing the spice shelf of Patrick's kitchen, I read some familiar names; garam masala, cardamom, cumin. I think about making chana masala with Kashif-- or more accurately, watching him make it. I think about living in the studio apartment on Burcham with him and making shrimp and orzo, how orzo is nothing like rice, how I told Patrick about making this dish, then I'm back in Patrick's kitchen, and I realize it's nine o'clock and I have to drive home. We read the Funnies, then I drive home.

Now I'm in my car again. The giant is still perusing the clouds in front of him; what's he looking for? But now I have to turn West and I'm no longer looking at him. Thoughts continue to spike back and forth across my mind; I consider the expression "my thoughts", and it just doesn't seem to apply. Like Suzuki's cattle, they wander freely in the pasture that is my head. Perhaps it would be more fair to call them sailfish in the the ocean that is my head; hither and thither, wherever they care, but get not in their way, as they are deadly fast. I have to stay out of their way, too, sometimes.

My Luke Swank mug, full of pens and pencils; someday soon I hope to drive down to Gary, and Hammond, and take pictures. I ask my parents to tell me stories of the mills over and over again. I will have more to say on this.

Treetops
coral bells
sunflowers
sushi mats
tofu tod
picture frames
licorice wheels
raincoats
laptops
chick peas
kites
coattails
pinstripes

Switchboards
music notes
paint palettes
flags
leaves
butterflies
hour glasses
pen and ink
raindrops
scallops
puzzle pieces
egg cups
windows
cupcakes
heart confetti
sea shells
shooting stars
antique barns
ornamental grasses
chess sets.

I am reading your copy of an Indian epic right now, leaving post-it notes where they be and reviewing various pencil scribblings in the margins. I feel like I am reading it with you. As I finish a paragraph, I echo the "Oh oh oh!" of your inaudible note, feeling the shock I imagine you may have felt.
Reading on, I feel overwhelmed, or have something to say about the sentence I've just completed, but have no one to confide it to-- then I see you have already thought it over, and agree or disagree with me, at the bottom of the page.
Your scrawling is like beautiful Sanscrit, and perhaps as often I cannot read it, yet I derive meaning from it.

On the way home on the radio she listened to Tom Ashbrook and his guest panel of pro-life advocates and Catholic bishops and what have you, which set her on edge.

When she got home she sat in the living room and promptly had an argument with her mother. She stood up to retreat to her bedroom, when her mom said, "You know everything." Her blood boiled over and she couldn't stop herself from saying, "What the fuck!"
"Watch your mouth!" said her mother.
"Fuck fuck fuck," was her response.
"Why don't you move out?" her mother said.
"I'm working on it." said she, though she doubted her mom would know what that meant.

In her bedroom she cried and cursed herself and hated her existence and knew she really didn't know anything at all. She bruised her leg and then felt even more guilty for mistreating her body, as if she were third-party to it, like the way one feels guilty when they borrow a friend's car and accidentally scratch it.

At that point her mom appeared outside the door and pushed it open slowly. She asked what the matter was, clearly wanting to be angry but seemingly unable to be.

---

After talking to my mom, I felt relieved; I had often felt deceptive, and though now she was burdened with worry I hoped that the honesty was worth it.

I took a shower, and washed off all the bad stuff I had said to my mom. I looked in the mirror; normally I resented the faded specks on my skin but today they reminded me of constellations, and I didn't mind them. After the warm shower my heart beat tentatively.

I went back upstairs, where my mom had now lit the fireplace. We discussed my visiting a friend in Kentucky. "Why don't you fly? You'd be surprised how cheap it is," she suggested, and I suspiciously wondered about how she'd intuited my choice method.

My lips are all puffy, just one side; one side smooth, the other side rough and unpleasant, chiseling something polished out of asperous rock. I keep touching them. I have to resist tearing them open. I get into bed; my mom had offered me a Tylenol PM or something else to help me fall asleep, but I told her that I didn't have trouble sleeping. I could sleep all the time.

Stars fell down
one
by
one

I invited you to pick them up
with
me

But you declined
without
saying
anything

Or explaining why.