A Day Ending with 'Y'

E to the phemeral. Schmeschmemeral, fefemeral. I'm wearing a turban, practicing my best Death of Marat.



the tide rolls in
the tide rolls out
yes, twice a day
and with the tide
may i as well
be washed away


The New Tradition

Isolate (intentionally/unintentionally) one's self on this familial day of thanks. Think of the past year; gather all of the sad things, the incidents that have caused anger, pain and unhappiness, hold them in your chest, gingerly. You have lots of these, don't only remember the big ones, there are small ones too (a child crying in the Winn Dixie with a running nose; angry automobiles at the mall, their brakes screeching; another visit to the Emergency Room where the light glows too green and they hook her up to machines that hum coldly; being spoken down to). Don't dull them down, or make them nostalgic. Just wait. Now, remember all of the beautiful moments spanning the year, the ones that give you hope, meaning and genuine pleasure. Don't skim on these, there are plenty (the way the sun comes through the blinds some bright mornings; a flock of small birds doing aerials in the gray sky; the way a kiss on the back of your neck feels; the tropical feeling of your bathroom after a shower). While it may be easy to glorify your happy instances, don't. Have them in your mind as they were in the world. Pomp and circumstance have no place here. Having seine netted your year, effectively judged a small fragment of your life, divided arbitrarily good from arbitrarily bad, lift your face to the sky; give thanks for the sun on your cheeks and let it all go. What really matters? Today's just a day, and you're just a human and all you have is the right now.


To Have and to Have Not

Three hundred and sixty five plus three hundred and sixty five plus three hundred and sixty five is how much?


On a Saturday

I am waking up on a chair and the heaviness hits me like a truck. Watching your sadness become a verb, the way the corner of your eyes crinkle downwards, how your lips part. If only my eyes were neosporin and a bandaid, not useless and blue, and I could make you whole, or at the very least, a little bit happy.