Tag Archives: salt

Muse Memory Writing Prayer


Memories are dim –
white clouds on the outside.
I’m waiting for dark,
for gray or black or that sheet of sky where stars wink through holes
in cut fabric.

The Sullen One, the Dreamer, the Spectacle, the Net-Caster –
Oh, Weaver
I am alone in myself without drift or muse
Words on the horizon.

Is there a miracle invocation to be made?
Inspiration could be
a ghost from my past, or a spirit to prompt dreams
of lampposts in winter,
of burning oils and incense and
a poem without rhythm or reason
or rhyme
that flows like the ocean and whispers like the salt.
Simple rhythm.
A misguided drum.

And so, into the abyss, slowly,
I go descending

With my dreams scattered among nightmares,
the cutting edge of joy on my wrist;
hungry for life and death and the deepness of feeling.

So we are the painters, the artists, the diplomatic chief designers for our own lives, deaths and in betweens.

Snow falls and everything is soft and clean again.


Today is my mother’s birthday



Attend your parents’ birthday parties if you can. And if you can’t, tell them how much you love them in your own special way. Because parents are the most incredible people.

I already write her a lot of poetry, though, and subject her to various reading torments at the last minute, just before the deadline. Then I say things like, “I promise, I’ll send it earlier next time!”

Then I don’t.

Still, she says she loves me, and she acts like it most of the time.

My mom is the kind of person who is still guilty for “yelling” at me when I put a tablespoon of salt in the pumpkin pie instead of a teaspoon, and then we had to make three times as much pie because there was three times as much salt. Of course, pumpkin pie is my favorite, and she didn’t even punish me by making me eat it salty or not letting me eat it at all. She just said “What?” in an angry and frustrated voice when I assured her that I had added the tablespoon of salt like she’d asked. And honestly, it’s pretty much a joke now, but I know she still worries a little.

Unfortunately, mom, what I’m really mad about is that you never let me do any hard drugs or get pregnant when I was 14. Instead, you convinced me that if I were going to sneak out, I should just tell you about it, because, like, you would want to know where I was. And then, when I did sneak out… well, that’s a birthday post for dad in the making. But I’m really mad about the lack of drugs in my life, mom, because today my creative writing class came to the conclusion that you can’t write from the perspective of a person who’s done LSD unless you’ve done LSD. And I argued with them. I really tried to explain why that argument was silly because lots of people write about things that didn’t actually happen to them or that they have not experienced. But my professor said I was wrong and, well, I blame you for not encouraging me to alter my mind enough times to induce profound creativity and the ability to write as thought I’m cracked out.

Given that you are my mom, though, you probably know that I actually can write like I’m cracked out — because you’ve had to read it, like you’ve had to read everything.

Oh, by the way, there’s another 250-word essay for Yale… so, um, I’m going to send that to you… soon.

Happy Birthday, Momma.