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HUMANness, DOGS

Labor

This summer has left me
With a Kosher Dill Baby Pickle jar of ash
And exactly two cigarette butts.
In water.
Not that I'm addicted
Just that I don't know what to do
With a hundred year old ache --
With a two hundred year old ache --
Some days.

I've tried to liquefy that yearning.
(Whiskey frozen pours like cheap cheap syrup
Onto cheap cheap frozen waffles
Microwaved to melt a tablespoon of butter,
Post toast,
Each.
Whiskey like that.
Whiskey like silk and hugs.
Whiskey like making your grandma's farm vegetable soup with no pants on.
Amen.)
I failed.

I've tried to half em
Or double down.
Circle bits of the way life punches you awake
Or asleep.
I've tried to prose it past.
I've tried to move it away,
To move it home,
To kiss it better,
To pretend a whole lot.
Failed.

I keep the stinky pickle jar under my sink.

I can't count how many times I've talked myself out of my feelings.
I can't explain or make it less teenager frantic backslash icky sounding to say:
You're
Kinda like
In my bone marrow.
[Giggle.]
That's where I found you.
Keep you.
Miss you.

Like that mystery centurion ache.
But with a face and a name in this lifetime.

Old souls burn holes in a Mom car's dash
And soon find a kitchen window
By which they soil soiled city water
Inhaling big big questions
Exhaling small small maybes
And writing both off
In a pickle
Jar.

Hallucinating faces talking like silent movies.
Obsessively concerned about a father's passing.
Coming to terms with exactly how much toilet paper one woman uses.
Understanding why people whom live alone talk of nakedness.
Working and learning.
Reading and running --
Lungs go, "Huh?!" --
Singing.
Awkward and nervous.
Grateful.
Almost ready.
Happyish.

Old souls are seekers and "failers"
As most who seek would agree
(If not just Kathleen Edwards)
Is a synonym for
"Adult."

This summer has left me
Twisting my soul up into that space of air between nicotine and painted blue aluminum.
Tucking it behind caustic cleaning supplies in a purple glove draped bucket.
Dwelling quietly between sustenance and flexible metal logic,
Somehow stinking of both fresh linen and of dirty hands.
Forever at an unrest,
Pickled and
Awoken --
In so many ways --
By the sound of home.
 

Billie Holiday #3

Billie Holiday #3

What Do You Do With The Sadness?

What Do You Do With The Sadness?