1. I cut my heart out with a kitchen knife and threw it in the sea at high tide because it no longer served me.
  1. I built a boat from driftwood to look for it, but it had sunk beneath the waves.
  1. Early this morning, I walked the beach at low tide hoping to find it, sheathed in delicate seaweed; to gather it back and let it dry in the distant winter sun.
  1. At dusk, I gathered it in a broken music box from my deceased grandmother and spoke to it all night because I could not remember the melody.
  1. Come back, I didn’t mean to run the car in the garage. I just might need you.
  1. The House is very quiet. Ashamed, I dodge all the mirrors and turn back the clocks to a different day when somebody held me against starlight.
  1. Nothing is forever except forever.
  1. Laughter still may fill the colossal gap between y and z, the ending.
  1. It is time to sit with the ghosts of the House and tell them everything.
  1. They are afraid for me.
  1. It all became so difficult to breathe, to find things worth finding.
  1. And then the Book was returned to me; the stones in my chest once again became pages.
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  1. Melancholia perched atop the Angel of Poetry on the Christmas tree, an invisible Elf on the Shelf there for maybe days. When no one was looking, she slid through the necklaces of tiniest lights across the crystal snowflake ornaments, small placards declaring noel, peace, silent night, believe to the manger carved in white stone.


  1. She was forgotten amidst the opening of glitter-wrapped gifts and held breaths during the scratching off of lottery tickets. No one won this year, but everyone had new socks.


  1. When the guests left, she permeated the entire House even with the dozen strands of Christmas lights, the starry night of deepest repose; the disturbing show paused.


  1. The missing gathered at the ceiling, dreaming of saying words out loud; touch. They missed their bodies; the play of cause and effect.


  1. Washed away by several warmer days, smaller piles of snow remained, dirty beneath the streetlights atop the brown leaves you never finished raking.


  1. You would let her stay tonight though it was a dangerous proposition; welcome her, in fact, for just tonight while you gathered your holiday-depleted energy and formulated a new strategy in the interstices of disturbing dreams.


  1. Melancholia hadn’t descended like this for five months. The Angel of Poetry had ensconced herself mid-summer; leading you through magical sentences; iterations, sublime; an infinity like no other except perhaps love.


  1. The Angel waited for the other to leave in the morning when you banished Melancholia with your deepest being, enriched with sleep.


  1. The beloved was still far away; words at the sea lost in high-tide winds of scatter.


  1. Work would complete the forgetting; the sweeping of sadnesses under the carpet of Thursday.


  1. The tires of the car needed twelve pounds of air on the passenger side, and you would figure out how to use the machine at the gas station without too much embarrassment.


  1. Your poker face perfected like the sunlight climbing through the trees.
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  1. Today’s topic is entropy; the rotting side of the garage exterior wall that will cost $950 to rip out and install new cedar shingles, according to the contractor whom you fear ripped you off on the work done on the House the summer before last. [And the friend who painted the other side of the house you had to unfriend in the physical and cyber world.] No invoice; no straightening of the slats at the apex, small attic, as promised. When you remember to call him about the slats, you’ll get the answering machine, and it will take weeks for him to get back to you for a job for which you already paid.


  1. The temperature has dropped, freezing rain throughout the night—and the driveway, a sheet of ice without enough salt to melt it.


  1. A wise decision to call out from the half-day at the day job vs. risking your safety, and aging on the treacherous drive there and back. Just you and the dog and cat in the living room with the Christmas tree adorned with the extra sets of lights and more ornaments than you thought you’d have the energy to hang on the hooks that always get tangled somehow while in storage in the cellar.


  1. With the cold, your hands are not cooperating, so you’ve turned the heat up now that the oil has been delivered; the worker traipsing through the snow with rubber boots up to his knees. You watched him surreptitiously through the gauze curtain, thinking he has on his ice fishing gear.


  1. Sickness has settled in again, and there doesn’t seem to be enough ginger ale on the closest drug store’s shelves since it’s fortuitously on sale this week. The lemon hard candy helps though.


  1. What if I’m dying?, you ask yourself—before the inevitable answer, we’re all dying.


  1. The living will presented to you by the kind technician in the too-small, ever-shrinking examination room at the doctor’s four days ago is probably protocol for any adult, no? And then the awkward conversation with your next of kin about the decisions you made and his name and cell phone number on the form.


  1. The day seems stuck again in the cogwheels of late afternoon. It’s time for a new distraction since sleep didn’t come as beseeched when you went to lie down with the dog in the still-fresh bedding. Kicking him out of the bedroom every morning to make the bed properly has eliminated the prevalence of his fur.


  1. The disgruntled cat does not like any other wet food except Friskees but not any of the patés, which you have to admit looks like shit coagulated in a can. Luckily, you had the foresight to buy her small tins of sardines; their eyes staring up at you from the dead.


  1. The Christmas cards are almost ready to travel to the post office, replete with cheerful stickers of silver-glitter snowflakes and absurd dogs in Santa hats and stockings riding in wheelbarrows.


  1. There have been more deaths; some unexpected and some, the cause of old age. The manuscripts that need to be finished seem to burn in your hands that ache from wrapping all the small Christmas presents, early this year though you may still add some more ribbons, bows, and other ornamental flares.


  1. Not everything is art, but it all should be, you muse—even entropy.






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  1. I am losing things. My ducks are not in a row; they have gone rogue at twilight while I was watching mindless TV instead of the world news, unable to bear today’s tragedies.


  1. I am losing my ideas and such. They wander off the rail, into the embankment of last night’s deadly car crash, off the grid. I’m looking for them in the dumpster behind my favorite restaurant I can no longer afford, in the swamp behind your house with my industrial-sized flashlight, but the batteries are dying, and I’m not sure how many flickers of light are left.


  1. I lost the velvet emerald dress for the holiday party this weekend that I bought matching shoes for, the long coat that would be warm enough for the cold weather predicted. I’m stuck in the labyrinth of my own making again; on my hands and knees, reaching for the words that fall endlessly through the gaps of synapses, memory.


  1. My failures with syntax glare at the periphery of day shifting, winding down without me, perpendicular lines, or beautiful symmetry.


  1. Do the math, I tell myself, enumerate the missing and dead with stick figures in the cave of the self. Measure winter appropriately with the rusted ruler, the distance from— [your disappearing House, all the lies I told].


  1. The river between our delipidated houses is overflowing now the December night has gone oddly warm, and the blue snow beneath the streetlights melts. A Siberian land of ice chunks, floes; the cracking ice moans, an old woman who has lost her own visage in her broken compact mirror, echoes out above the evening traffic, hovering.


  1. We should walk together out of this melting ice land, holding hands until we reach the southern border, but we mustn’t speak of any of this.


  1. When you find the rust-orange leather glove and the moonstone earring I lost that day you kissed me languidly last week when the river was frozen, that day we knew our equation would not be a summation, but rather a subtraction, please package them in tissue and leave in my mailbox that the plow knocked down again three long days ago. You’ve become part of the negative space where I live huddled with blankets and an odd assortment of talismans to protect me from what is to come.


  1. I know you are pacing along the river on your side of things, flicking daylight through test tubes, picking apart the malfunctioning parts of the machine, pulling out your silver hair—all for the sake of some shabby catharsis, a fabricated antidote. You’re predictable that way; trying to pass the night with a steadying branch over the newest abyss.


  1. The clock seems stuck, but it has been wound and cooed to. It’s funny how some days stretch larger than one’s imagination can.


  1. The rooster windchime outside my bedroom window is clanging away the night even though the clock is slow to move, and all the devices seem frozen on 9:11 PM.


  1. When you finally find this, I’ll be gone again, back into the corner of our dark game, stitching my nefarious seeds into stone, your collar bone. You mustn’t panic or tell the others. None of them should know.
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  1. Waking to winter snow often requires every iota of energy; your favorite bathrobe on the door, a continent away.


  1. The Ghosts of the House gathered around you in your sleep last night, you’re quite sure, in communal whisper, hushing it was all going to be okay from the ceiling. Heat rises and they, too, without flesh around attenuated bones, are cold.


  1. The House has gone very cold overnight; a hundred gallons of heating oil was not delivered yesterday, as scheduled. Call when the office opens; light the fire with the latest stack of discarded drafts for the two hours before you need to alight in the metal-box chariot for the day job.


  1. Stalk with your stronger eye the rising winter light above the pines when you take the dog out after your first cup of coffee. Note the iridescent glistening at the edges of branches from yesterday’s new snow and the forecast for rain. If you don’t don your hooded winter coat, an umbrella in order.


  1. Write a note to stop at the post office for Christmas stamps for the cards you are definitely going to send out this year and mail the two parcels of books to Pennsylvania and Kentucky.


  1. A hot shower with the bathroom door closed will loosen the stiffness in your neck, back, and knees from sleep. If you open the drawer to the vanity next to the door, the cat will not intrude successfully, dispersing the steam.


  1. Don’t obsess about the medical test results in yesterday’s mail atop the kitchen counter where you left it for future worry. Press delay.


  1. Driving on the roads winding through the proliferating snow-laced trees, lean into the road and don’t panic about the eighteen-wheeler to your right amidst the relentless rain; take heed of what the Ghosts proclaimed. Pray the rain doesn’t wash away all the snow from last week, so there may be a white Christmas in Connecticut.


  1. Remind yourself that it is, as the calendar indicated before you left the House, Friday, and nothing will change that. Friday the 13th, but you don’t believe that the Gemini full moon will impact that number. It’s just a human construct, the dates, the time, to make it all manageable, compartmentalize infinity, no?


  1. The blank canvas of the weekend looms out the dashboard window, out into the skies blanketed with clouds of milk that has turned gray, past its date of recommended purchase.


  1. Visit the pawn shop tomorrow to see if the small cello for sixty dollars has been sold.


  1. Don’t miss exit 8 on the highway like you did yesterday. Pay attention; it all goes on without _____. [you].
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  1. The looming white winter landscape—blurred by dream. The fog is still with us.


  1. Thirty-six hours of rain have washed away six inches of snow; now water dripping from the gutters that weren’t cleaned yet of fallen, pale brown autumn leaves. You worry about potential ice build-up in the Arctic days to come and jot down a reminder on the chartreuse post-it notes to text the family landscape guy, who has become an odd friend.


  1. The pines, colossal sentinels against the obscured sky, lack any discernible symmetry; their hawk, invisible, cawing into Tuesday.


  1. Buddha, in the blue light, motionless; still up to his chest in snow in what is left of the winter garden: truncated rose of Sharon and butterfly bushes that preened fuchsia, lavender, and dusty pink origamied petals just six weeks ago; the errant sweet pea at a standstill high up your privacy wall.


  1. Four pieces of mail: two bills, a credit card application that you won’t qualify for, and an advertisement for solar panels on the house you somehow afford; no Christmas cards yet.


  1. The white plastic bird bath [the ceramic salmon-colored one that cracked last year, finally thrown away] held down by a stone removed years ago from the sea you didn’t manage to visit the past two summers. Sigh.


  1. You find the tape measure in the broken drawer of the chest in the garage and measure the distance on the wall map to New Zealand’s White Island where yesterday a volcano erupted in a tourist location—6 confirmed dead, 8 missing and presumed dead, over 30 hurt. 17.5 wooden inches; 8,750 miles; according to a later Google search, 8,783. You’ll measure again tomorrow in morning’s light through the garage windows.


  1. Death causes you to remember the news anchorwoman who delivered the local news on Friday during supper like she did for 33 years and didn’t wake up on Saturday.


  1. The new fleece-lined slippers are still magical and warm; you’ve properly refrained from wearing them to walk the dog across the street to the empty lot where he likes to go after meals. A pat on the back in order, a hot chocolate with a heaping fist of baby marshmallows; tiny faces afloat in the froth.


  1. Side B begins [the day job over] on the couch under the picture window that frames the still-dense fog just as the towering streetlights flick on. No YouTube, just rain.


  1. Dinner can be fetched from the freezer [or maybe New England Clam Chowder from a can since there is milk in the house] and eaten at the counter like a horse; no one has to know you live this way—the floors without sweeping; the scattered rugs collecting particles you don’t usually notice; dust bunnies, and more dust; last month’s mail, too many notebooks to count though you’re tempted.


  1. Then the dream from the morning fills you again—lost inside the moon, a cocoon of milkweed-silk-sadness wrapped in light; looking for your father, the one who sent you there.
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  1. Take the last train before quick nightfall out of the city you love, where someone you’d been trying to remember all day once loved you.


  1. Secure a window seat [and one not going backwards], so the frozen lights of towns from there to here, to where? to home can find you—huddled by the Christmas gifts, nodding off, remembering all the lovely strings of words the beloved gave you too many lifetimes ago.


  1. When the train conductor rouses you for your ticket, smile wanly through your tears; he’ll assume someone has died, smile wanly back, and hurry along onto the next passenger. There are paper napkins crumpled in the Dunkin Donuts’ bag from earlier to dry your face.


  1. Cautiously, count the twenty-two steps over the ice the clusters of gray salt didn’t melt on the driveway that needs to be repaved come spring. But that’s five long months away; no need to wince at the now-diminished checking account.


  1. Make a note to ask someone to assist you with installing an automatic light atop the garage door before you fall and break your neck. [You know you won’t think of it, otherwise.]


  1. Put the cold metal yardstick that the last snowstorm towered over back into the garage for the next Nor’easter to share the plentiful snowbanks on Facebook. People in warm climates, you know, dream of snow.


  1. Though exhausted, dispense the pills for the week into their cheerful, little apple green compartments and leave next to the refrigerator. Yes, Monday, so soon. You mustn’t forget to get gas for the car in the morning because too-little gas in the tank can freeze.


  1. Let the dog find your hand in bed and soothe him when he dreams of his other life before you; the life of his ripped left ear and muffled barks in his agitated sleep. You should have washed the bedding, but next week will be just fine.


  1. As promised, refrain from “X”-ing out days on the last month of the calendar in the kitchen while the water boils for coffee; use the thick teal marker to inscribe in each box that has passed, a wave, to be connected across the weeks.


  1. When you arrive home from work, plug in the eight strings of tiny blue star-lights [masterfully connected to just two electrical outlets] on the Christmas tree, tune the smaller of the two cellos with the pitch whistle, and perfect “Ode to Joy,” finally.


  1. Let the split pea soup simmer longer, so the tiny bits of carrots are soft before you bring four servings across the street to the woman who no longer knows your name, though she will recognize you.


  1. Be confident, the vertigo will lessen in the coming days [when the wavelength of the week finds the right margin]. Hold yourself upright and very still. Hours later when sleep still won’t take you, count the satin blackbirds in the skeletons of trees, three thousand of them in an ancient Persian text, backwards.
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iterations of summer /24 [september]


Spiritual hunger has ebbed//

satiated, in dub[i]o[us] fact—

that desire to have things||

feed the null set ¥ stuff

new abysses with light, possibly color•

<< impossible

burnt sienna~~inside a company>>

an ongoing

conversation with

the universe.


It’s not like it was anymore~~ and thus,

never shall be ¥ >> merely another



varnished doors keep breeding

more doors, tunnels, and bridges

through nights of

crushed oleaginous velvet. My

forest owl continues

writing its poem; the once-homeless poet*

dog smiles. Wet peat-moss

ground has shifted our

common ground; bending


roads with their

attendant anxieties. Imagination

knows what might

go wrong—or right, one

reminds the

self hopelessly lost

in shuffle–


The final days of sum*

mer eluded. There was no

music, just rain. The gar*

den ran wild toward

the sun.


Autumn began her

delicate footfall—stepping


with a slight chill;

condensation on

car windows. One

must clean the ga*

rage, make

room for kaleido*

scopic after*

maths of objects and

their objections

to memory.


This year, I swear

on my father’s grave–I shall

clean the gut[ters] aft[er]

the old red

maple gives up

her wither-crunched

tan [l]eaves–I will

answer when you

call [me].


Until then, you can

find me on the

rotting picnic bench

of my childhood

[adorned with soft,

emerald moss]—


singing atonal arias

to the discombobulated

Ghosts of the House—about

the cold, rusted p[or]ch s*wings

of the encroaching

long winter–


[ab]out longing

to be [a

better] human.

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/21 [from] iterations of summer [september]



The holiday memo was email-bombed COB Friday to all

involved parties with some supervisors bcc-ed in, but none of


the workers fucking cared. Driving for too many days leaning into

the serpentine roads with cars following much too closely toward


a town that no longer existed, I texted you—asking to tape our worries //

splintered prayer boards to stones you should fasten to the hidden


river on the ancient map. . . but the cell towers were cluttered

with the aftermath

of another DOUBLE set {double bubble*gum*

style mass-produced} of


MASS {please note the irony} SHOOTINGS–

on the same fucking day—conducted with the skill of a


virtuoso European conductor HIGH on street-grade

CRACK. Yes, it’s true


I was flying high on polyphonous frequencies—

talking much too fast//frenetically—before the


inevitable underpass—collecting

torrential rains—a bi*product of


the catastrophic hurricane—for which the tourists weren’t smart

enough to evacuate. {When one pays for a desperately-


needed vacation on credit with 22% interest, the best

decisions aren’t always made.}


I was looking for the extra toothbrush for the

adolescent whose father might


IMPLODE again—because of the newly // non*binary

{gender*fluid} sexuality // self-


asserted {finally}; nomenclature

{warrior name}—to clean


out//urge//expunge aforementioned

COBWEBS—in our collective un-


conscious—when you caught me off

guard—with your


frantic//––// EVERYTHING*IS*

CRISIS* phone call.


Please forgive my NECES*SIT*AT*ED //

self-imposed quietude—


in the morning-garden light–

of this six o’clock hour.


There are some things I need to


get off my chest—in P=R=I=V=

A=T=E—while I scavenger-hunt


the missing clues—to share with

you later on your facebook timeline.


Adjust your privacy settings accor*ding*ly—


{{I’ll miss some of you.}}


to catch another

tidal wave*tsunami at the nu-


clear plant—trying to move


the frayed toothbrush through

the diaphanous cob*webs—


one leg in night-dream; O=N=E






When we me*et, you






At the makeshi{f}t alt{ar},




{w}ill es{sent}*i*ally sur-


render. . . .


three t{hous}an/d birds



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/23 [from] iterations of summer [september]



The words were very hungry and, in turn, made the people who heard them hungry.


Some of the captivated audience would go for celebratory pizza and beer and talk utter bullshit;


others flew home in metal-boxes to their estranged spouses, disappointed children, mammoth TVs—


cyber blue light in the retinas too many hours of quotidian escape burned even in their half-dreams



[or, maybe] the pages of the Book would locate and drown them;


sentences dangling them over the edge-plateau Abyss. There were


metaphysical moments a few in the crowd wanted to talk about,


but the words ran right off the page—like a watercolor


on an incline leaving spider threads / maps. The dilapidated, lopsided mask-


constructions might banish the evil spirits back to their proverbial, macabre forests—


but We can no longer see the trees; stuck in being [pronouns].



A sign on the door signals the baby is, at last, sleeping.


The writing on the wall promised the war in someone else’s country would still be going on;


too many splintering teams, foreign interest / disinterest, complications of vested interests,


threats of terrorism / social media [de-]propaganda, [no breathtaking leadership]—



but what, in essence, should a concerned citizen do—make a phone call, send an email,


text the netherworld; tell them to come fetch some of the complicit / colluded crew?



Time should be carefully allotted before it accrues, fools you.



It’s silly to remove the lower pillars of the shifting construction,


but the heavy-metal soundtrack, replete with a chorus of electric guitars and five mammoth drum sets


made it all seem somewhat, temporarily bearable—


before the crumble-shuffle cumulative shock effects; how dizzying!



You really should un-knot the plush, golden rope for the disaffected cat; tired, she lounges


in the tall September grass; late lavender heather, Russian sage, burnt clover—


all the neighbors of the disenfranchised global neighborhood [almost everyone]–


hanging on by a spider’s thread. Saturday’s fifth gear will dissipate


exponentially by Monday, sigh.



It’s all esoteric philosophy [subjective sentences built out of private nomenclature] anyway, isn’t it?]



The cicadas will be even earlier tonight than the earlier earlier duskfall sky paintings, muted by cloud layers,


giving the illusion that all the pain is softer;  light traveling farther away to be closer to


someone / something else.



Objects, adjectives, prepositions, and complicated ideas [the brain’s strange pictures edited by someone who went temporarily psychotic with the scissors and tape]


will be defined by what they are not.


July is not January; money is not water.


Not everything can be counted; not everything can be lost.

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