My Journal
Writing is an important way for me to process my feelings, questions, confusions, and experiences.
CW: some journal entries are about traumatic experiences
here we are together
I think I’m here just so we can be together
so I can give you that look across the table when he says that thing
squeeze your hand as we walk to the park
rub your heart when you don’t know why you’re crying
that’s all really
children grow
daffodils bloom
foundations crumble
and here we are, together
Oh, to be grieving in spring!
Like a toddler’s tantrum at the circus,
Or a bad mushroom trip at a house party,
I’m out of place—walking among garish daffodils and eager hyacinth.
Surely I belong in a deep, damp cave,
wrapped in a bearskin,
sucking snot and whimpering at my misfortune.
Surely I don’t belong here, in spring,
where birds yell “good morning!” and Ori’s spindly legs finally find fresh air.
“Juxtaposition, you’re cruel!” cries the cavebound woman, wagging her fist,
blinking wildly at the sun.
Still… free.
Shame, she told me, is key
to unlocking the next level of consciousness.
Oh, and don't forget about humiliation!
---
Suddenly, I'm at the dinner table, seven years old,
watching him bully you, a child.
My heart runs like raw yolk.
---
Adult me, yoking myself to
yoga and meditation.
Sitting on beaches,
praying the pain away.
---
Oh, the humiliation!
Of being a human,
of having this body that was used so young.
---
Still, here I am,
yoking myself to yoga and meditation,
moved to tears by a hot pink sunrise.
Because here we all are
still
still...
free.
my casual mid-life crisis
what’s the trajectory of a mid-life crisis?
does it crash and burn,
like the Harley Davidson i bought with borrowed money?
does it elevate me,
like my new shaved/bleached hairdo?
does it stay and linger,
like the heaviness in my gut?
this isn’t a crisis so much as a subtle unnamed unrest
maybe my trip to Jamaica will fix it
Escarpment
She’s telling me something
about myself
about danger
about hutzpah
about power.
She’s telling me a secret
I can’t put into words
because her language is too slow
for my millisecond of a life.
Older? Wiser?
I used to crave being next to the ocean,
waves crashing so loud i couldn’t hear myself think.
These days,
I long for the whisper of a stream in the woods.
Am i older? Wiser?
Or just tired.
Uncatchable Muse
Maybe 3:22am is the time to write about you
Maybe 3:22am is the time to write about you,
because the rest of my day is diaper-filled.
At 3:22am, I can lean into our kiss slowly
and wait until my head finds just the right tilt
to make you happy.
You like it when I tilt to the right, right?
what i’ve known
Sometimes at night
my wife reaches out to me in bed
Sometimes at night
my wife reaches out to me in bed
and I notice how soft her hand is;
I hold it or kiss it, or give it our special squeeze.
Sometimes at night
my wife reaches out to me in bed
and my whole body jumps, heart screaming,
terrified of what’s coming.
Then I remember
what I’ve known.