I have tools at my disposal
To keep my house happy
Good for trimming overgrowth that presses against the house
Or repairing damage from the environment.
That one is good for sawing down trees that might work their roots under.
This one helps me patch holes in the walls.
This glue prevents things from falling to pieces.
This paint keeps it cheerful and waterproof.
If I spray the house often, I keep the bugs out.
Moisture is inevitable, but it shouldn’t damage,
And it’s most important to keep the bugs out.
When the world is first frostbitten
tender trees touched in thin ice
When summer shows its back
abandoning you for a faraway land
When winter’s wan face smirks at your peephole
hard fingernails tapping your door
knowing it will soon be strong
enough to crack your lock and let itself in
When everything disintegrates into blue and white and crispy brown
and the wind, mad surgeon, lacerates your summer softened skin
then the clouds part
of heavenly light
a welcoming patch in which to stand
When you know you are about to lose it for good
that is when the warmest sun shines
I didn’t do any inking or writing today! Instead I bought a lot of food and brought it to my sister for her birthday.
Here’s an old, old poem. Back when rhyming came more naturally to me.
You’re always so distant
You’ve left me behind
I perceive I’m still there
In the back of your mind
I’ll be patiently latently waiting for you
To see how you’ve gone down now — just one where were two.
When you start to look back
Will you start when you see
Right behind, looking back at you, silently — me?
I actually enjoyed drawing this one, and it shows. Not one drip either! Except for a little scrape of the pen on the corner of the page, which doesn’t bother me. I’m mostly happy with this guy… at least right now. He’s the least stupid thing I’ve drawn so far this month.
Dad said he’s proud of me.
I well up inside at the words.
What the hell is he proud of me for.
And why should it matter?
I’m fucking thirty.
Part of me thinks, oh Dad, I don’t need that anymore.
Part of me thinks, what have I done that’s any good?
Part of me thinks, I really am something, aren’t I.
And part of me deep down
A very early, primal part
Starts jumping up and down and clapping her hands.
I have no success in work
I have no success in art
I have no success in home making
I have no successful mate
I have no success in health or beauty.
I do moderately well in most things.
How does a parent think?
Why does he feel proud?
Maybe he’s just happy I turned out okay
Maybe that’s all a good parent really hopes for.
And he was a good parent.
He still is.
A really wonderful parent.
I’m proud of him.