Month: December 2018

December 5

Jess

He says his name is Jack but as it turns out his name is not Jack and many other things he says about himself turn out not to be, in the strictest sense, true. However, his real name also begins with J and is four letters long, so is it a lie, really? He doesn’t seem to think so, so you decide not to, either. How much of what someone says is supposed to be true, anyway? How much of the truth do you really need to know?

today
my
eyes
aren’t
real
only
those
delphiniums

 

December 4

how are you
doing
how’s it
going what’s
up
how are
things
how are
you
what’s going
on
hey there
hi

how are you
feeling
what are
you
doing what
are
you
thinking

do you have
anything to
say to
me do I
have
anything to
say to
you
what is
today what
is
tomorrow
what the hell
was yesterday

passing clouds a text alert

freezing into crystals what’s left of the dialogue

plot summary…rain into snow

December 3

geese
departing
in
imaginary
formations

It’s hard to write fiction these days. I blame this on the feeling that everything that’s happening is fiction—that we’ve walked sideways, or gone through a wardrobe, or dreamed ourselves into a world where you’re forced, every hour or so, to hit yourself on the forehead and mutter, “Where the hell am I?”

I ask
what they answer
chickadee

This part of the day—the mystified, head-banging part—is the only part of it that feels real. The rest is like the minute just after you wake up when you haven’t left the dream world but haven’t fully arrived in the real one either—when you look at your surroundings and want to weep because it isn’t the world you remember.

probably not forgiven yet grackles

December 2

The thing about crossword puzzles is that all the words in them are on leashes and have been taught to do tricks. Words like that never ask difficult questions or haunt your dreams. They curl up obediently next to you and keep you warm while you rest your brain. You tell yourself that you’ll turn back to wild words eventually—when the fever subsides, when the pain dulls. Meanwhile, you’re accustoming yourself to being entertained by extended paws and subservient positions.

A state of bored restlessness: 5 letters.

this way
to the egress…
the shock of cold air

December 1

This morning I bought a Christmas tree in the pouring rain. Twelve hours later it still smells so overwhelmingly of Christmas tree that it’s starting to irritate my nasal passages. I hate it when I get when I want.

fiftieth Christmas
the Advent calendar
ragged around the edges