March, 2017

To feel like a welcome mat that sees the seasons, but never any care or cleaning.

To feel feet pressed and released as people tread over.

Whatever, whatever may come. With April showers come may flowers.

Have a nice trip. See you next fall.


Forty Nine : Pensive

Three years ago I would wake up with Squid pressed up against me, the two of us wrapped up in blankets, to clamber out of bed for work, or to make coffee while cleaning and preparing food for the night or day, or whenever. I’d commute to work, spend my day working for someone else, and then return home to continue whatever work hadn’t been finished that morning or the evening before.

Now I wake up with Squid pressed against Pepita, her figure close, but not pressed up against me. I clamber out of bed for work, or on days off lay close, sometimes pressed against each other to eventually roll out of bed. Prepare coffee or make the trip to the dispensary, free coffee and a joint to return home and light a candle, light the joint, and sit in the dining room with music low to fill the silence that sits like a layer of dust, but hanging just above our heads. I sit in my wooden chair and watch the clouds move out the sliding glass door, past her face, smiling at me.

“You centaur” She says with a grin spreading from ear to ear.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re like a centaur sometimes, with your face, and the beard….”

“Give me a word to describe it.”


“No, like concentrated? Or maybe Stern?”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

“Pensive?” I find the definition.
“Engaged in, involving, or reflecting deep or serious thought.”

“Totally, that’s spot on.”

I smile and return to the screen before me, thinking of Ally Sheedy.
“Andrew sits pensive in his chair.”

Yes, I do.

Wooden chair

Now that I’m here in this place, with her, with Squid.
Watching rain through a trees branches,
from a wooden chair by a sliding glass door
something similar, somewhere new
Letting my mind wander to nothing in particular at all
Pepita, bread, bialy, dinner, chicken, life
swish swash rumble tumble hum hum buzz, swish~
The sweet sound of laundry
Fresh skin for a new day, hour, moment,
But it eludes before it can build.
Standing, reaching
Click the lock
Now hoist
Heave the heavy door aside and hang my back and head into the air
Arching back, head up to taste
Lovely springs life returns
How many dinners will I eat by this door?
How many more
With her