Listen to be heard

a bloom and a frost where we came to do no more and no less than find beauty

Plastic Chairs

I’ve been having this dream.  It’s surrounded in fog, a hazy mist rolling out off the river’s face.  There’s an old man sitting across from me, and his eyes are dark under a frayed baseball cap.  His skin is taunt and forming liverspots, and he’s speaking a language I cannot understand.  He’s leaning in and speaking slowly and I still cannot understand.  He’s making wild gestures and annunciating his words with urgency.  I still cannot understand him.  He gets flustered, and worried, leaning in and hoping for some small recognition, a human made connection, some small concession.  He begins to float out, and he disappears into the empty mist.  He is gone.  I am awake.  I am sweating, and scared, and I understand nothing at all.     


For those of you who haven’t gotten your hands on a copy yet, here’s a little taste of what’s under the covers and between the sheets.

To the ajumma of 4:30am

With your pressed
Face upon the glass
          In stores convenient,

And the flowers
Red-yellow of your shirt
           Wilting in your heart,

Walk me to your home
Show me picture books faded
          And loves found fragile

Like bottles
And broken

Your apologies
To lives less caring 
          Muddles curses spat,

Heads shake, eyes turn,
Smell liquor on your breath
          And leaves wounds flamed.

Hope clinging
Pleading seen eyes
       To hear a heard mouth. 

Come here, ajumma.
There is someone to talk to.
Don’t mind their hurried glances.
They are all becoming you.      

“The spring breeze melted snow on the hills then quickly disappeared.
I wish I could borrow it briefly to blow over my hair
And melt away the aging frost forming now about my ears.”

—   U Tak

“Yea, verily he will return: ask him not what he seeketh in the depths; for he himself will tell you, this apparent Trophonius and subterrestrial, whensoever he once again becomes a man”

—    Friedrich Nietzsche in the Preface to The Dawn of Day


We caught the noon bus,

Placing armrests between us.

A tidal week left thin,

With a hurried hollow weekend.

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“Bloom! I beg of a dead flower: bloom! bloom!”

—   Yale Y. Clern from Cobbled Hearts and Storefronts