I saw the crescent , You saw the whole of the moon!

last Fridays full moon. the fullest of the year. swollen with the kind of luck i could feel
sink into my skin. no clouds and 10 miles east it would be hanging calmly over the Atlantic ocean. I wish i was there. sitting with you on the sand, keeping your hands warm pressed to my chest. crabs snapping along the shore. the moon glowing over what's left of this December. something we now share, or at least this vision of it. an illusion of what is and isn't. if it were snow or rain or ash or tears. fall out from a time when our hearts beat and I told you I could have loved you. just a little to late.

Still don't know what to get someone? Here are three books I wouldn't mind having. Any of the three would make a great holiday gift.
1.
Strange brains and Genius: The secret lives of eccentric scientists and madmen
2.Show Me How: 500 things you should know instructions for life from the everyday to the exotic
3.Wacky Packages


Luck since the full moon:

-scored a kathie olivas dunny. It's the one i wanted in the series. (it has a fuzzy body)
-found an old post card in a book, it's from 1986. Garfield on the front. (it's a love note) I enjoy finding those.


- They still had Koibito figures available from artist Yoskay Yamamoto's art show and was able to place order for mine.
- Dallas Cowboys win and keep playoff hopes alive

lies to prevent panic

there have been delays due to snow. the static i hear in my head not the white cold dust that falls from the sky. I once saw her catch one on her tongue. a snow flake as unique and special as you. she closed her eyes as it melted in the warmth of her mouth. snow mixed with ash from population growth and nearby drug factories. I asked if she thought it might help with her chronic cough. she reached for my hand.
only this. she said pulling my hand towards her heart.
I felt it beating against her chest.
we have a pulse!! i screamed with joy.
she's alive...she's alive. I began to sing frosty the
snow man.
please don't. please don't she said your making me laugh and youre out of tune.
Happy Birthday!!! she said. More laughing....i get the joke.

we played in snow to celebrate her arrival to this world. my snow-girl. a magic ribbon tied to her hair.
Now don't melt. don't melt. don't melt.....
we danced in the snow. not the static in my head kind but the kind that falls soft and pretty like in movies. It's the only kind I know and that's no lie. I've never seen snow. I tell her.
she says she is surprised.
by what?, I ask.
that you didn't lie.
i said i never promised to tell you the truth, only that I'd never share our secrets and I never have and never will.

the snow never seen nor ever felt or ever will or maybe?, if you showed me.
would you show me?
would you show me if i told you i had more teach you. even if i don't, even if i couldn't. I'd say i do and could just to see you one time laughing in the snow.
purple rain, she says. you got that one time laughing line from purple rain.

when it's cold and it rains is that how snow is made? I asked. really. tell me.
do snow girls bleed or only melt?
she didn't say. she wouldn't say. she wouldn't show me. maybe she doesn't know.

Carving through bone

House clean. oven hot. the windows open with light pouring in- warm smells of food and clove. Football chatter coming from the T.V. Tennessee scores again.
I played my guitar out on the porch for awhile. strum and hum. I need a high and low voice to back me up. A me and a you. Ive written lyrics for this im working on but they are vague. It's more the feelings. when i woke up I decided on a melody but it sounded to much like something ive been listening to all week. That happens, you hear or read something and you can't help for it to sink into you. Then you have to release it somehow. It shows up your art. Im thankful for the inspiration.
I like the sounds from outside. the birds and motors low hum, the cars that pass. I think the entire neighborhood is cooking all at once. Everything smells so good. The air and the sky is amazing.


We don't share memories of having holidays together. Not my birthday or yours, not valentines, thanksgiving, christmas, not easter, not halloween. We have between all that. The in between. We are the love in between. We have become our own holiday.
I glance over at the night stand. I can make the shadow of my watch. Something familiar. Something me, something from home.
I'm in her bed under blankets. I am wrapped safely in her lies. She is drowning in mine.
we keep breathing. now and after. Time won't wait for us.
My watch keeps the time. Its touched you, it's spent the night in your room. When i last looked at it I was with you. I'll look again someday and be somewhere else. With someone else.

I wonder how it would look worn on your wrist. Heavy and big with glowing numbers illuminate the cool darkness. hands, to count our minutes and hours to count when we meant something and when we didn't. the fall. the falling apart. when you call me I will note the time. I will remember when you say goodbye. I will say...at two o clock tomorrow i will be over you.

I don't think you ever really move on from someone. you just make room in your heart for new people.

what part of uncomplicated equation don't you understand?

what does it mean
these cold days
down south

here
to remind me
of the winter that
never happen

these mornings
with blankets covering
our skin
and scars

strawberry words for no
other reason but
to pull you
into
me

the air smells
clean
and the sun touches me
through glass
high and bright

we wake to the new
day our
lies healed
and secrets silenced

by a story
yet to be written

there will be fall out. telling you, i love you.
from saying it and then not stopping even long after it’s done. and it will be done, if it isn’t already.
I haven’t said it often. I didn’t dole those words out like the purple dinosaur you grew up with.
it wasnt a song or a poem. it just was. simple and plain and tragically beautiful.
There is fall out for bleeding in front of you. that’s why I’m here and if that’s what it takes, if that’s all it takes. I will breathe and bleed and show you the scars. i will write it all down and if it sounds redundant. I’m sorry. but I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry because there is always war with love, always the bombs and explosions in the sky, and then there is the fall out. the isolation and silence that follows. the ghosts of words. the ghosts of our lies and the truth that remains long after we’re done.

she picked me up last friday night. drove me to the beach. she said she had something to show me. we walked along the shore-line. the sky was clear and the moon was full. I liked the shimmery glow, how the light danced on the water. the waves crashed and salt-water ran over my bare feet.

she asked me what time it was. I looked at my watch and after i said, she told me to look up and i followed to where she pointed in the sky. A burst of bright light next to the moon, a vapor trail.

It’s the space shuttle she said. now, You’ll always remember this night.

I didn’t even know…. i started to say but she threw her arms around me and shhhhhed me with a kiss.

I watched the rocket flare and shooting flames. I saw the shadow racing across the light of the moon. Swollen and full.

she wants new memories in my head. she wants me to remember her when she is gone. to miss and write about her. she is all but time and space and distances now. she is getting me back for promising to make her glow. for offering more than i could give.

this night i let you win.

i liked her when she was sweet and unexplainable

The weight of winter:

Ive been invited for pancakes at my mothers on Sunday. fluffy, blueberry. All the women in my life make delicious pancakes. They bake with aprons tied and hair pulled back. I would say i prefer bacon and eggs but it lacks the charm and whimsy of gooey buttermilk batter and pretty green mixing bowls. It's just a greased up fry pan and spatula nothing poetic. something to have the morning after a night of dirty sex. pancakes are warm blankets, they are snuggling up in bed together like a Kurt Halsey drawing.

I grew up, my mother stayed at home. cooking, cleaning, caring. Always there. I thought that was everyone until about 5Th grade. Of my friends parents that were actually still together, both of them usually worked. I might be slightly needy of attention because of it.

the girlfriends Ive had. I'd never see fathers around. Step-dads at most.
This is Dan she'd say. I'd shake the guys beefy hand and automatically assume he was a creepy sex pervert after my girl-friend. I'd check her room for holes in the walls and cameras hidden in the ceiling.
I couldn't find anything here. but I'll be right back, I'll check the bathroom for you.


I'm the only daddy you'll ever need to know. I'd say.
I'd get a laugh, but some night we'll be having sex and can you guess what she'd call me?
It must be the glasses and stories and the fact i won't let her have any fun. She plays the part of spoiled brat so well, I know she isn't faking. neither am i.

but i like her when she wears her apron baking. she told me it once belonged to her grandmother and it doesn't turn me off any less. she's sweet with the little blue spoon in her hand wearing next to nothing. The apron, the socks, the undies. I'm not saying it's where she should be, but i won't say i don't think it's the hottest thing next to Georgia asphalt and maybe her in my Cowboys #9 Jersey.

It's always these little things. things like blue berry pancakes , aprons - the smell of girl. It kills me to remember that she has a weakness for Patsy Cline and old country music. and her hair clips. I'd pick one up off her night-stand sniff it, press it to my heart. they smell like metal.

Photo credits:Cheap Thursday's'
Art credits: the black apple (etsy)