It's not true that everything sucks. It's probably a testament to how much everything does not suck, that I have a space and home and partner with whom I am able to process all these things right now, but it is true that the processing of all these things sucks.

god, everything sucks right now

that wasn't meant as a letter, but it could be. dear god, everything sucks right now, maybe we could work on that?

At the creek at the park by our old house on Sequoia Street where we lived, my mom, my dad and my brother and me, we are feeding the ducks crusts of bread or popcorn from a paper grocery sack. The ground is green and soft, the ducks are dipping their beaks in and out of the water, honking at each other. One of us lets go. The sack blows into the creek, holding the bread crusts, floating there. My dad says we are going out for pizza, hoping we'll forget he's said this by the time we get home. Our house is white, with morning glories in the side yard and a front step where my dad and brother and I would a few years later stand with our brand new nintendo still in the box, on the outside, ringing the doorbell. We go there by bicycle and buggy, my brother and I buckled in, staring backwards, I'm looking down at my strawberry shortcake shoes and watching the park and the streets get smaller and farther and farther away.

missing god who was my friend

This is strange to write about, but I woke up in the middle of the night thinking that I might believe in god again. Not a moralistic god. Not white bearded god who looks down from the clouds and is overly concerned about my genitals. Not god who loves at gunpoint.

Maybe I am just far away enough from allofthatcrap to start reimagining god again, as someone I could actually (/could actually want to) believe in. Just god who listens, just god of peace and acceptance. I don't think this god is someone I could share (hide it under a bushel--yes--), having godiknow grow paler against all the strange claims about theonetruegod.

I don't know. It would be nice.

i carry your mess with me (i carry it in
my sdlfsaldkfjlaskdjfl skdfj mess)

tweed coat

In my neighborhood I pass a man in a tweed coat. I've seen him before, standing in the intersection swinging an umbrella at cars. Today though he is standing on the sidewalk, looking out at nothing at all.

On the platform it's raining, and a dragonfly is trying to land. The wind catches and carries it out and up and up. Or maybe it flies.

The man in the tweed coat does not seem to be waiting for anything. He seems caught between two worlds that cut across each other like slats in the bench that cannot even hold his umbrella. As though he was picked up mid-trajectory and brought here by the wind, only just sometimes swinging his umbrella at all of us who don't understand.

I try to sound out his sounds. But he is mute here, like the ostriches whose message Tamina cannot understand. He is opening and closing his mouth, his words have no sound.