A Full Life

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Tag: poetry

  • Floorboards, Clinging

    Floorboards There are faces and images in all of thefloorboards near the door of my bedroom.A witch, grinning, a dog,a wise old man, pairs of long legsa nose, too. And I watch them whileI meditate, and think about everything,and pray to not want to die. Because lately, I’ve wanted to die.My whole life, at times,…

  • West Lands

    When I sit down to write fictional stories, the setting is always the same, and the setting is way out west in California. I don’t know other places well enough, and even if I grow to, which I might now that I live in the Midwest, my bones quite literally grew to their capacity in…

  • And I Will Tell About It

    What do we share when we stop hiding ourselves away? This is, of course, the internet, social media, the shame over guilt culture of appearance and perfection, and in these realms we skirt the truth, muddy it up, maybe forgo it all together. What happens when we decide, I’m going to share it? We’re free.…

  • To Thine Own Self, Be True AF

    My guess is that if Shakespeare were alive today, he’d be all about not giving a fuck what others thought. (You know, in the healthy, anti-codependent, non-sociopathic way.) Let me declare, just to gain even more credibility here, that I used to be sort of obsessed with astrology. Give me a break, I was fifteen. And though I…

  • Transportation

    Nothing transports like a song. Nothing evokes such memory. Like Proust’s famous madeleines, the hearing of one song has transported me back twelve years and sixty-two miles away, to a world I no longer inhabit, to best friends and lovers I no longer know, to places I will probably never see again. At nineteen I bought…

  • Lovers

    I come to see, in the gasp between our love making, when there’s nothing there, when the emptiness is so full I forget to like my pain – that mean fathers produce truth tellers, lovers who gaze lost, seeking, us deep in the earth, with eyes hopeful like a child’s eyes, wet and glistening, arriving…

  • Layers

    the anger is thick, deep, it is like a crust, molded and beginning to stink, for so long it has festered, I’ve tended to it like a garden, conjuring thorns, weeds, a swarm of insects, I have seemed to like it– but it’s the emergence of grief that breaks through, the tenderness that cuts it,…