Friday, March 25, 2011


Heavy heart

Here it come.

The hardest part is the eyes. The truth I see, the truth I feel.

So connected, so together.

Still not enough? Slipping steadily.

We, farther. Falling without a place to land.

Thursday, March 17, 2011


So T today was like, I guess poets only write about sad stuff. (Because I haven't written in so long) Well, nope! Each day with him, I am learning and growing. What a wonderful thing to be constantly evolving, it is such an adventure and I'm pretty sure I don't want it to stop.

I'm new at this, the whole opening up forever.
You're teaching me.
I learn.
Yes, everyday is different. Everyday is new.
I wake up each morning.
Always, always needing you.

"Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being "in love" which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two."
-St. Augustine

Wednesday, March 2, 2011


Photographs die. After a while they scarcely remind us of the dead. At first each snapshot is a shock. Then something happens to the pictures, they reveal only a blueprint of the face, not its truth.
Anna Kamienska

I can't stop.

G.L. calls me—a blind man whom I met a couple of years back. He remembers my every word. The loneliness of the blind.

He’s freed from his loneliness by the word. Isn’t that the point of poetry? Breaking through the walls of solitude. Poetry is the great S.O.S. of loneliness.

G.S. tells me he is a beggar always pleading for human help.

I say, “I wish that you could see the world more clearly”—and suddenly realize the absurdity of my words. I’m speaking to a blind man.

He takes my hand. He sees only with his hand.

“Mercy flows through touch alone,” from my poem “Body.”

Exactly a month later.

Time flies.

Accidents are the atoms of life, its thread is spun from them, whether up or down.
The “script” of accidents is difficult to decipher.

Anna Kamienska
Um whoa, how amazing.