In Love & Awe


Thanks to the fabulous Erin Coughlin Hollowell, I have recently been following Jeffrey Davis’ Quest 2015. The basic premise is that smart, imaginative people send out prompts throughout the month of December asking other smart, imaginative people to respond as they set their intentions for 2015. It’s a very cool thing.

But, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been a C- student. I love getting the questions and reading everyone else’s responses. I lurk around the edges. I’m just reluctant to spill too many of my own frailties and uncertainties into the lap of the world.  So I’ve mostly been living in my head and cheering from the sidelines.

Yesterday’s prompt, though, is stuck in my craw.  The question was posed by the incredible fiction writer, Pam Houston, and this is how it went: Sit quietly and ask yourself, what in the last day or week or month has made your heart leap up? Not what should, or might or always had, but what did. Make that list. Be honest, even if it surprises you. Keep the list with you this month. Add to it when it happens. Train yourself to notice. Then ask your self today, how can I arrange my life to get more of those heart leaps in it?

Those questions have continued to knock around my head. The truth is, my heart leaps constantly. Sometimes several times an hour.  It leaps when the phone number for one of the girls’ schools pops up on my phone. It leaps when my husband is 15 minutes late, and I can’t reach him. It leaps when my mother leaves a message saying “call me back.” My heart leaps when my dog chases a ball onto the sidewalk too near the street.

And my heart leaps when I hear that a grand jury has acquitted yet another police officer and that the global ice sheet is at the lowest level in recorded history and that the United States is torturing people in overseas dungeons and that coal companies are dynamiting the tops off mountains and that bees are falling dead out of trees like rain and that the government is spying on basically every human being on the entire planet.

My heart leaps every time my text bell goes off or I see the word “breaking news” scroll across a screen.

So in other words, I am in a constant state of “leap,” and—in fact—the primary adjective my family uses to describe me is “jumpy.” I can imagine a full-blown catastrophe in half the time that it takes to type the word “catastrophe.”

But I don’t think that is what Pam was talking about, and frankly, that’s not how I want to live.  Plus it drives everyone I love crazy.

I am yearning for the other type of heart leap, the leap of beauty and awe rather than the leap of anxiety and fear. It’s funny how close fear and awe live in the body. And that’s appropriate really, isn’t it? Awe cracks us open to that which is bigger than us, to the unknown, to the mystery. And we’d better admit there is something fearsome in the mystery or we’ll have other things to worry about.

But in my daily worries, I’m skipping past the awe and running straight for the fear. I fear the call from the school because I love those girls so fiercely that even a wisp of a thought that something might be wrong brings me to my knees. And there is such animal joy in watching that beautiful dog of mine run at full-tilt, I hate the fact that I shatter that moment by imagining her in the street, the screech of breaks, the thud of impact.









And isn’t the grinding fear of climate change just the underside of loving the earth and her inhabitants so frigging hard? But, in 2015, I want to feel the love before the terror sets in.  The French artist, Hubert Dupra, has for years been working with insects to create sculptures. Here, he provided caddis worms with gold leaf and jewels in a small terrarium, and the larvae build their cases from the environment. Eventually, a caddisfly emerged.


Everything about that makes my heart leap. Yes, the beauty is breathtaking, but also the imagination, the biological impulse, the collaboration between insect and human artist.

What a world we live in! I owe it the respect of a little awe before I push the panic button.

I am a baby of the first order. I can’t watch violent movies. I am repelled by songs that are woman-hating and threatening. In fact, we had to walk out of Slumdog Millionaire because I couldn’t handle the first few scenes. Once I get those images—or lyrics—into my head, I can’t get them out. It’s as if they become part of my makeup, and Robocop and RiFF RAFF are not what I want to be made up of.

Our pediatrician once suggested that I read a book called The Highly Sensitive Child for some help in raising my daughters. After I read it, I thought “My daughter probably isn’t a highly sensitive child, but I’m pretty sure I am.” As a result, I have developed a habit of protecting myself. If content gets too intense, I turn away. I shut it off. I excise it from my consciousness.

This is a week where I have sorely wanted to do that – to just turn it off. Along with the rest of America, we spent Monday evening anxiously awaiting the outcome of the Ferguson grand jury, knowing that no matter what happened, it would partially define us as a country. We listened to the tortured nine-minute statement by County Attorney Robert McCullough as he indicted everyone—the media, the public, Michael Brown—except the officer who shot and killed an unarmed teenager.

I took a big deep breath, and then I turned it off. I spent the rest of the night heart-sick and worried, but relatively cut off from the rest of the world. Tuesday, though, we were barraged with images and evidence and testimonials. We were inundated with outrage on one hand and celebration on the other. It seemed as if the whole nation took to Twitter and Facebook, and the collective impact was overwhelming. It was—bar none—the worst Facebook day I have ever had, and boy did I want to shut it off.

But I decided I could not. That it would be irresponsible and inhumane to turn away from what my neighbors were telling me. Young black men were pouring out their fear of walking down the street in their own neighborhoods. African American moms were sharing their anguish at having to warn their sons about the life-threatening possibilities of an encounter with the police. And you know what? Friends and family members were also spewing racial vitriol, calling Michael Brown a thug, and celebrating the failure to indict. I needed to see that with clear eyes, too.

And it doesn’t stop at Ferguson either. I can’t turn my face from the gang-rape of an 18-year-old freshman at the University of Virginia. Or the suffering of Peter Lanza, the father of the Sandyhook shooter, who decided he was ready to tell his story to the New Yorker.  I can’t ignore actress Diane Guerrero whose parents were whisked away by immigration officers while she was at school, leaving her to fend for herself at 14 years old.

In all this, I am reminded of Garrett Hongo’s masterful and heartbreaking poem about a shooting he saw callously reported on television. Here it is in full:

The Legend

 In memory of Jay Kashiwamura

In Chicago, it is snowing softly

and a man has just done his wash for the week.

He steps into the twilight of early evening,

carrying a wrinkled shopping bag

full of neatly folded clothes,

and, for a moment, enjoys

the feel of warm laundry and crinkled paper,

flannellike against his gloveless hands.

There’s a Rembrandt glow on his face,

a triangle of orange in the hollow of his cheek

as a last flash of sunset

blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street.


He is Asian, Thai or Vietnamese,

and very skinny, dressed as one of the poor

in rumpled suit pants and a plaid mackinaw,

dingy and too large.

He negotiates the slick of ice

on the sidewalk by his car,

opens the Fairlane’s back door,

leans to place the laundry in,

and turns, for an instant,

toward the flurry of footsteps

and cries of pedestrians

as a boy–that’s all he was–

backs from the corner package store

shooting a pistol, firing it,

once, at the dumbfounded man

who falls forward,

grabbing at his chest.


A few sounds escape from his mouth,

a babbling no one understands

as people surround him

bewildered at his speech.

The noises he makes are nothing to them.

The boy has gone, lost

in the light array of foot traffic

dappling the snow with fresh prints.


Tonight, I read about Descartes’

grand courage to doubt everything

except his own miraculous existence

and I feel so distinct

from the wounded man lying on the concrete

I am ashamed


Let the night sky cover him as he dies.

Let the weaver girl cross the bridge of heaven

and take up his cold hands.


No. I can’t hide behind the preciousness of sensitivity, though I want to mightily. As Hongo says—I feel so distinct, and I am ashamed. These stories of anguish and suffering are the stories of my neighbors, yes. And I am obligated to really hear what it is they have to tell. But they are also stories of my country and my culture, they are the stories that I help create—over and over—by turning a blind eye and refusing to examine the rot in the systems we perpetuate and submit ourselves and our children to. Even as I write this, I feel sick to my stomach. I know these are stories I have taken into my body and that they have become part of my DNA. But the thing is, they were already there. I am already implicated in the shooting of unarmed children and gang rape and the isolation of mental illness. And it is my responsibility to keep my eyes clear and my heart open. That’s the least I can do.

Grandma Edna

Grandma Edna

Yesterday the darling-but-not-very-speedy-clerk at my local yarn shop took what seemed like hours winding five skeins of red worsted weight yarn.  I spent the first few minutes tapping my foot and pacing, but then I settled into one of my favorite pastimes – full-throttle eavesdropping. It’s one of the benefits of being a middle-aged woman.  People will talk about anything right in front of you, thinking either that your hearing must be going or that you have already heard it all anyway.

But as it turns out, my dear yarn winder was in a dither over what to wear in her hair at her upcoming wedding.  On skein two, I learned that the colors were red and gold and that the attendants—several of whom were sitting there at the table leafing through bridal magazines—were to find cowboy boots tout de suite. But she wasn’t sure what to wear in her hair—fresh flowers, a tiara with a veil, a fancy clip? One of her friends and soon-to-be-bridesmaids broke in: “Do you have your grandmother’s veil?” Her response was swift and categorical: “I have nothing from my grandmother.”

That hit me like a punch in the gut.  Oh sweet girl! Nothing?  I mean I don’t have my grandmother’s veil either, but I do have her funeral hat. And her kitchen timer. And a soap dish shaped like a chicken.  I have one of her mixing bowls, a box of doilies wrapped in tissue, and her recipe for pecan pie, though I am almost certain she got that recipe from the back of the corn syrup jar.

So I do have all those things—and I have a few treasures from my other grandmother as well—but I have other things, too.  I have her outright love of electoral politics.  In 1992, I scrounged together enough quarters and dimes to call her from a payphone in Dupont Circle the morning after Bill Clinton was elected. I had been out all night in the streets of DC with the other young idealists, and I just wanted to hear her voice. “Ah honey,” she crowed, “I haven’t slept that well since Roosevelt died.”

I have her crazy inability to make a decision. Just when I think I am close, I start to consider the benefits of the other side. We’re both Geminis. We’re meant to dither.

I can trace my handwriting directly from hers. Hers was tiny and immaculate, but her capitals were three or four times the size of her lower-case letters, and her Ws had a little curl at the top of the right hand bar. She handed that angular writing down to my mother, whose handwriting is slightly bigger but is still mostly composed of sharp corners. It has those epic uppercase letters though. That sensibility came straight down to me. I’ve allowed for a few more curves, but the capitals and the Ws are a testament to DNA.

I suspect my grandmother might have been a bit of a tough customer as a mother. She was lonely and mercurial and expected her daughters to fill the void. She had a stink-eye that was unparalleled in the Western Hemisphere, and she could turn a cold shoulder for days at a time. But that’s the blessing of grandparents.  She never—ok, rarely—gave me the stink-eye, and there was always a pot of coffee on. She clipped out gossipy newspaper articles and bought my favorite candy bars for her freezer. She met one of my daughters before she moved on and just missed the other.

No, I didn’t wear my grandmother’s veil to my wedding either. But I treasure my chicken dish, and I still can’t make a decision to save my life. Seeing her handwriting on the back of photo can reduce me to tears, and I wish to good God I had had enough quarters to call her last Tuesday night after the mid-term elections.  And this week, I am going to make her pecan pie recipe, and I hope you will, too.


Grandma Edna’s Pecan Pie

3 eggs (beaten)

1 cup sugar

1 cup white karo syrup

1 cup whole pecans

1 tsp. vanilla

¼ cup melted butter

Pour into an unbaked pie shell. Bake 325 degrees. 50 minutes.


I hope my daughters will remember the sweet times – the family trip to celebrate my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, the time I let them stay up until midnight in the middle of the week to play in the snow, the evenings spent carving pumpkins and decorating the Christmas trees.  Breakfasts and dinners and car rides full of music and silly talk. I am acutely aware that our days of sleeping and rising under the same roof are numbered, and I want them to have those tender days to call on when they’re far away and lonely or scared or wondering who they are.

Yesterday was not one of those days. It was not—shall we say—one of my finer hours in parenting. I was up at 4:30 a.m., rushing, rushing.  Making breakfast, packing lunches. Reminding: tap shoes, physics assignment, overdue library book. Reminding again when I found the tap shoes on the kitchen counter. Dog walking and feeding. Then driving. One daughter to school, then home, then the other. Driving. To work, 15 minutes late.  Apologizing for being late. Apologizing in the next meeting because the first one ran 15 minutes late. Then emailing, talking on the phone, meeting.  Looking up, leaving work 15 minutes late to pick up the small daughter. Apologizing for being late. Driving. Cooking dinner.  Reminding: homework, piano practice, permission slips.

Then, about the time the dishes were all in the dishwasher, I asked one of my daughters a question about her plans for the next day. She didn’t answer because she was playing a game on her device. The other one was watching YouTube on my device.  I asked again.  She didn’t answer again. That is when the wheels came off.

I went on a rampage that started with “you are disrespectful of me” and ended with “the future of the Republic is in jeopardy.” I covered all the bases—mind-rot, phones compromising relationships, precious and finite hours being spent on stultifying entertainment, corporate control over the imagination, and the downfall of a nation rendered too stupid to govern itself.

Mama, my older daughter said, It’s just a game.  That gave me an opportunity to rev up all over again, but by that point I was losing steam, so I just walked into the other room and burst into tears.

Eventually I apologized for going berserk. And so did they for not listening. But I can’t stop thinking about it.  Not really the disagreement between me and them.  I think we’re ok. They know that once in a while I go bat-crazy and that it’s not really an indictment of their character or a predictor of their future success. But it did open my eyes to what I think about our lives, and by that I mean all of our lives, not just my family’s.

It’s all just too much – too much work, too much school, too many activities, too many forms to fill out. Too much friggin driving. All of it.  It’s out of human scale, it defies the realities of time. And yet we keep doing it, and we keep expecting our kids to do it. And then, we’re surprised when they want to spend their evenings plugged into some kind of pre-tested, numbed-out entertainment. They don’t know what to do with themselves when they’re not rushing around, and they’re bone-tired to boot.  No wonder they want to listen to moronic teenagers shout at each other on YouTube. No wonder they don’t answer when we ask them about their Spanish tests. No wonder.

I do regret yelling at my daughters and demonstrating a particular fierce brand of crazy. But I somehow I don’t want them to forget it. Somehow, I want us to keeping thinking about it, to keep fighting back. When they are alone at night in their own apartments—someday all too soon—I want them to ask themselves how they want to live. I want them to ask themselves whether the country is going to hell in a handbasket and whether YouTubers are leading the way.




I have borne witness to an awful lot of handwringing lately.  Handwringing about the fighting in Gaza and the fact that a mob of Russian separatists can lay their mitts on enough firepower to shoot a commercial airliner out of the sky and about the fact that it is a good 10 degrees warmer here than usual (fossil fuels, hello) and about an Ebola outbreak moving faster than the speed of human intervention and about the fact that the world—the entire world—cannot seem to rescue nearly 200 beautiful school girls from a band of thugs.  And those are just the things I am handwringing—and lamenting and praying—about every day.  But the handwringing I am actually puzzled by is the handwringing about, yes, potato salad.

Over the past year, I have had the chance to learn a good deal about crowdfunding.  In fact I love crowdfunding.  I think it is an opportunity for us—the citizens (and by that I don’t mean citizens who are anointed by legal status but citizens inducted by heart and soul and action)—to say “Yes, in my back yard.  Please.” It is a chance for us to express preferences and push creative projects.  It is an amazing thing how $5 means a lot more to the powers-that-be than a signature on a petition.

But for the last few weeks, there has been drama in the crowdfunding world. In case you haven’t heard, a crazy character named Zack Danger Brown from Columbus, Ohio, persuaded nearly 7,000 citizens of the internet to give him $55,492 to make potato salad.  He was asking for $10.  (Favorite fact:  His middle name is Danger. Seriously.)  But in the civic crowdfunding world, this kicked off a whole lot of the aforementioned hand-wringing– “How can someone raise $55,000 for potato salad when there are [suffering children, homeless dogs, under-appreciated marmots].  Few of the campaigns to address these injustices raise anywhere near $55,000.  What is wrong with people?  Seriously, potato salad? Think of the children, the dogs, the marmots!” It is a symbol of all that is wrong with America.

Of course, they’re right.  But truth be told I find myself loving Zack and his potato salad, even if I’m afraid to say it in hand-wringing company.  Yes, I love the campaign for its pitch-perfect irony.  (“Will it change the world?” Head nod. “Probably.”) And I love it because it makes fun of Kickstarter and its rewards and its ducktailed hipsterness. And who doesn’t love that?

But really that’s more like a crush.  I love it because it invites us to something real, to something human.  I love it because its basic impulse is one of simplicity and nostalgia. It invokes grandmothers and church potlucks and bacon bits.  It is, as I keep telling people, a subversion of modernity.  It is the human hand versus the machine, recalling the central anxiety of the industrial and post-industrial age.

But I also think it runs deeper than that.  At the end of the day, even with all our crowd-funded empowerment, we suspect we can’t do a thing about neighbors bombing the living daylights out of each other or the suffering of children and animals. We fear it’s too late for the planet and for the cherished girls in the Nigerian forest.  We fear Ebola could wipe out entire continents while we watch in horror.

But we are pretty certain we can make potato salad.  Or at least that Zack Danger Brown can.  Or that he can try to make it with a huge smile on his face, and he can invite us to join in. We find solace in the fact that we can sustain one another with picnic food and laughter.  We are comforted by the simplicity, the ease, the hospitality.  We are relieved that we still locate sources of pleasure and generosity.  So, it is for those reasons that I love Zack Danger Brown, and it is for those reasons I can actually pause—for a moment—and stop wringing my hands.


p.s. – But here’s another confession: I loathe mayonnaise potato salad. I prefer a vinaigrette. My family, not that into potato salad either way.  But they’ll tolerate it once a year in honor of the birth of the nation. So here’s the recipe for my Independence Day Potato Salad:


Independence Day Potato Salad



1 sweet onion

4 cloves of garlic

2 small handfuls of tender green beans

8-10 new potatoes

a generous scoop of cherry tomatoes

½ cup of olive oil

Juice of 1 lemon

¼ cup of balsamic vinegar

Basil, oregano, salt & pepper to taste



Bring a big pot of salted water to a boil

Dice potatoes and boil until soft

Meanwhile, snip green beans and blanch for 2 minutes

In a splash of olive oil, cook onions until clear and soft

Add garlic and beans to onions;; sautee until gold but not brown

Drain potatoes and add to garlic/onion/bean mixture

Make vinaigrette with remaining olive oil, lemon, vinegar, and spices

Toss all ingredients in a bowl with fresh cherry tomatoes

Serve chilled or at room temperature



turkey dinner

I hate to do this.  But I am going to have to take issue with the great Joseph Campbell, from whom I have gained solace and comfort and inspiration from for nearly as long as I can remember.  Campbell was one of the world’s foremost experts on myths and culture. And yes, he was a genius. And a cultural icon.  But let me back up.

I am in a mess at the moment.  I don’t ever remember saying—or even thinking—the dreaded words writer’s block. I have always had a backlog of ideas and a drive to wrestle human experience into poems or essays or even wisps in my notebook.  Not so right now.  I have no idea what I am doing or why I am doing it.  Poems are turning to ash in my mouth. The essays I have started feel self-indulgent or derivative or—worse—wholly unnecessary.

It is both terrifying and bleak. So I am reading like a fiery fiend to try to find a path back into art-making of any form. My pen is poised over my notebook, but I will take anything. Karaoke. Macramé. Paint by numbers. Anything. This dead and doubt-filled mood feels like the mood that overcame me when I first heard someone describe dark matter in space—ice-cold, menacing, lethal to everything I thought I knew about humans’ role in the universe.

So enter Joseph Campbell.  For many years I have turned to a little book entitled A Joseph Campbell Companion, a compendium of teachings by Campbell collected by the poet Diane Osbon, with most of the material coming from Osbon’s attendance at a month-long seminar with Campbell in 1983 at the Esalen Institute in Northern California.  The book is generous and wide-ranging and is intended to inspire.

And boy do I need some inspiration, particularly when it comes to art-making. So, I skipped ahead to the section “Living in the Sacred,” which as I remembered it, is a paean to the transformative power of art.  And sure enough, there is this lovely:

Art is the transforming experience.

 The revelation of art is not ethics, not a judgment, nor even a revelation of humanity as one generally thinks of it. Rather, the revelation is a marveling recognition of the radiant Form of forms that shines through all things.


There. Of course, the invocation of the Form of forms doesn’t help me with my immediate problem—not being able to find a poem with both hands. But it does reassure me that art matters, that it is the light in our fumbling quest to become more human.  More alive.

But then, a few pages later, is this:


One application of the artists’ craft is in doing something like making a turkey dinner, another is in creating art that is of no use whatsoever except esthetically. When I use the word “art,” it has to do with “divinely superfluous beauty” and esthetic arrest. There’s no esthetic arrest in eating a turkey. That’s life inaction, doing what it has to do, namely eating something that’s been killed, putting it into your system. It’s totally different from esthetic arrest and recognizing the radiance. Are you going to look at the object or eat it? Eating the object is related to desire and loathing.


Vasily Kandinsky, Circle with a Circle

Vasily Kandinsky, Circle with a Circle

And there is where the issue of taking issue comes in.  I am all for superfluous beauty. In fact, the transcendent geometric forms of Vasily Kandinsky are among the paintings that matter to me the most.  I can almost see the shimmering sub-order of the constellations vibrating behind them.  But the paintings of Marc Chagall are also among those I treasure most. Chagall’s paintings are magical and otherworldly as well, but they also celebrate and embrace the world of cows and churches and broad-hipped weddings.

Marc Chagall, La Mariee

Marc Chagall, La Mariee

For me, there is even more to it than that than the difference between Chagall and Kandinsky . While I am in the dark night of the soul with regard to poems, I still have to cook dinner.  It is high summer, so I am in my garden every day.  And, I am still knitting baby blankets and prayer shawls.  And it is in those every day makings that I can still find the “radiance” that Campbell talks about, even when the well of pure art-making is dry or at least very, very low.

Every day, I am immersed in the transformation that comes from heat and water and time.  In the application of those elements to raw materials—peppers and tomatoes, radish seeds and soil, wool and cotton—I get a glimpse of the order of things. I get a chance to join in the steady business of creating and re-creating form.  For me, that is not “life’s inaction” nor does it relate my peppers or pea shoots or yarn to “desire and loathing” because those transformations have practical, daily functions. As it turns out, the very fact that I can transform a pepper from our garden into chile rellanos or ratatouille makes the idea of making a poem again seem more possible. It makes it seem as if the order of the universe favors the makers after all.  It makes me want to stay at my desk and ride out the doubt and flailing and suffering in hopes that there are still poems to be written.

And so I guess Joseph Campbell did work his magic over me once again.  He did arrest and inspire and bring me back to what matters, not with solace exactly, but with provocation and a turkey dinner.

Aging into van Gogh

starry night


Last week, I dragged Violet to the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.  I took her to New York for a few days to celebrate her birthday, and it was a tornado of  12-year-old exuberance—Mama Mia, the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, Times Square at midnight. For me, going with Violet was like going to New York City for the very first time. Nearly the only motherly insistence I displayed was that we spend a morning at MoMA. Well that and also that she balance her chocolate croissant intake with at least an occasional lettuce leaf.violet in grand central

While—not surprisingly—Violet raised the requisite eyebrow at Al Reinhardt’s all black painting and—surprisingly—was not all that into Andy Warhol’s soup cans, she did plop herself right on the floor to take a long look at Jackson Pollock’s Number 31, 1950.

I—as always—was drawn back to the room that holds the van Goghs, the room that holds The Starry Night.  It’s strange, really. I was never attracted to van Gogh when was I was younger.  In fact, I didn’t think about van Gogh at all beyond “postcard material” and “pretty sunflowers.”

But now, whenever I’m in New York, I find myself making a pilgrimage to pay my respects.  And I adore the painting of Postman Roulin at the Detroit Institute of Art. I’m trying to understand why. Somehow they speak to where I am in life. There’s something so tender about them. There’s such unmasked affection for the material world.  Especially The Starry Night feels like a grasping, it feels like trying to capture water in your hands.  There’s the nestled town, the ominous cypress, the boundless sky. And van Gogh holds it all.

Now, when I look at The Starry Night, I get it. I don’t feel as bold or as certain in the world as I once did.  The world feels fragile, and I feel cracked.  But those fissures and bruises make both the sleeping town and the bursting sky all the more precious. The painting brings the massiveness of the universe and the coziness of human co-habitation into intimacy but not collision.  The best we can hope for, really. So earlier this week, there I was, weeping in the middle of hundreds of international tourists, trying to hang on to the moment where my 12-year-old daughter  first lays eyes on a painting that cracks the world—and my middle-aged heart—right open.

So there’s this, a poem from a few years ago about the painting of Postman Roulin:

postman roulin



And It Appears that—Once Again—All the Blues Are On Hand

But now, I spend my time searching for a wisp

out of reach, for even serviceable French,

for enchanté & desolé.  For a moment stamped

here & now.   What is it about the mind made visible

in the cracked cornflower wall?  It’s a tell,

Monsieur R, you could be a sea captain

but for your bead-blue eyes, not horizon-weary

but nearsighted and sparking for a brindle-back.


Sixty percent will say their favorite color

is blue.  I wonder.  Is it for blueberries

or baby powder, a sky-sick Navy or love

for the Saxton sea? Is it for a grandmother’s

gentian or latent loyalty to Napoleon or the steel

of the last century?  Half-buried porcelain

or just an empty palm to declare a milk-sotted truce?

I wonder. Could I have been a sea captain


but for mal de mer & bald-faced failures with a compass

& two psychics who raised the flag of drowning?

You could be a police officer gatekeeper jail keeper key

keeper, keeper of the peace.  Zookeeper?  Maybe.

But not anything close to a stable keeper or a bar keep—

you must be something requiring the I-mean-business blue

of the state (or its proxies).  For me, it’s an outright search for nouns.


The neighbors called Van Gogh Fou Rou for a reason—

all that mal de tête in the fierce night sky.

My littlest little girl: what does it feel like to be a fish?

I reply: wet.  But, I can’t say:  the mind splinters

& insists you could have been an astronaut.

(But what of airsickness and vertigo

and grief for the spinning  blue planet?)


I could recall the sea blue wall if only the sea

were such a color, rendered by a foreigner, a mad man, a maker

of the blue of nations the blue of warhawks and love, doves.

The blue of oblivion.  Of the mind peeling off in gritty, lethal flakes.

I could have been a clam digger. You, a conductor, a chancellor.

A postman is better anyway.  Amongst splintered women

& salty dogs.  Ah, Sacré bleu! you can smell the mind

run amok.  You can hear it smoke.


Blessed are the bored & brindled. The lovelorn

& the seasick.  Blessed are the stern & right,

the silvered & the split. The iced-in stars, the warhawks,

the doves. En Francais: beni. Blessed is the smoke.

Blessed is the fire and last cold spark.

Blessed are the blustering & the brackish.

Blessed is the forgetting.

Beni soit l’oubli.  Beni soit le bleu.

Blessed is the blue.


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