Been going through journals, typing them up and letting go of the books. Found this today . . .

July 21, 1996

I know Exile.

I taste salt on my tongue after I lick my lips. Sweat
covers my body like a shroud.

There is no holy place; every place is holy.

There are cars outside, I hear them driving by. I used to pretend they were waves on the ocean.
I hear insects outside, constant whirly buzzing.
I see the lampshade, skin
with scars,
yellowed thin
yellowed light
burning through.

Feels heavy here, the back of my shoulders.
What if I pay attention to all of that tension?
Focus into where
I hurt.
Tight heavy weight
pushing pulling.

Separates me.

Try to move you.

Stretched piece of leather, hard.

You move up to my jaw, make me tired.
No way to knead you out. 

What do you want when my grandmother is in the next room
hooked up to an oxygen tank,
her face waxy dull,
her hair not hers —
quiet, shrinking, smaller
and smaller
into the couch?

She is proud, no pictures please.

She has a will.

Her pink bathrobe makes her look even smaller.
No reflection of pink on her cheeks, her skin sucks it all in,
not enough energy to reflect light.

Grey.

So many layers of life.
Her car is blue.

[Janet called me a sweetheart.
I am tired.
Francis loves me.
The 8-track machine is working well.]

My ankle is tight. It crackles every time I move it,
try to stretch.

Is there a perfect poem?
Kerry got engaged in front of everyone yesterday.

The water in the room is too cold.

Here comes mother to disturb me. She has a pack of Marlboro Medium 100’s.
I know that she’ll talk to me as I try to write, she always does.

Whenever I’m doing something, she is suddenly interested in what I have to say about
this or that.

 

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from September 9, 2009
updated April 27, 2026
Salem, MA

image: gramma’s kitchen – photographer unknown