a snapshot

There are moments that take place, moments that emerge, that seem to remain fixed in eternity. Maybe not fixed in time, because these moments come to be from beyond time and find their place here. Right now, I'm in Savannah, it's summer, 2010, and I'm counting my last five dollars and eighty seven cents. I looked up, and a bolt of lightning struck the power line pole next to the take-away diner I was hoping to get my fourth meal of the week from. I dropped a few nickels and you turned around, as though I and my nickels had caused the clap of lightning/thunder/approaching storm. I nodded awkwardly, trying to decide whether or not to pick up my change, and you turned back to the counter in front of you. The power had only gone for a few seconds, and no one inside seemed too concerned about the oncoming weather. I realized that I was concerned about rain drops falling onto your cascading red hair and wondered if I should say something. You took a deep sigh.

Hello Aalto Lounge Writers

The welcome sign hangs in the corner,

and that is how I feel about this group.

Welcome to the corner, but not welcome really-

the sign is just there to let you know we're here.

You can join if you want to or

just admire our sliding knuckles on

white paper as they glow red in the dark neon light.

You're welcome to watch, long for, to enjoy.

Marty in July

A car pulls up. And another one. A third. The cat sits on the porch and watches the action. Four more cars arrive, the last two fighting to fit between the oak tree and the driveway in the muddy grass. They all sit there, silently, as if no one had driven them there and no one was waiting to get out. But no, these weren't magical cars; there were drivers and passengers inside, and they were most definitely waiting. Even the cat knew that no one would move until that dingy green door opened, and Marty put down her can of beer to wave them in. The silence lingers, and then a breeze blows it away, rustling the leaves of the tree and causing the cat to stretch out a bit further. Finally Marty's shadow moves past old peach-colored curtains, and the door opens matter-of-factly. Blue eyes, dark grey hair, and a faded red dress color her 5'5" frame. She looks at the cat, nods as it decides to go inside, and collects her mail from the box next to her door. She glances slightly at her bills and slightly at her guests, takes a sip of her beer, and waves at the small gang of autos converged on her front lawn.

When there are no words

to describe the sunset,

a baby's laugh,

a funeral,

a broken heart,

we listen to the hum of love

that courses through leaves and people and mountains and birds.

We listen and try to remember

the time that we knew the words,

and we let the fullness of love's sound

carry us forward to new places.

The picture of bright green trees and yellow flowers

ripples like the surface of an interrupted pond

when viewed through eyes full of tears.

The red clay softens when our tears drop,

and the hawk overhead flies faster toward home.

The pinks and golds of sunset have gone,

but dusk's lingering blue light allows grief to stay a while.

Soon little stars and an almost full white moon will appear,

and the memory of dusk is all that will carry us through night.

"words are futile devices"

when the water boiled,

she steeped her tea and

watched the steam rise along

with her blood pressure,

and she couldn't imagine

going to bed without talking to you

or having that cup of chamomile.

instead, she let her tea pour out

over her hand; she watched the

pink splotches appear,

and there was peace in the pain

while you remained quite silent.

(title is from sufjan stevens lyrics)

Easter

Tonight I can sense the shiver

that runs through Earth's spine

as she waits for new life.

I wonder if she ever doubts its coming,

if silence lingers too long

and the stillness ushers in hopelessness.

Welt, Coma, Jumbo Jet, Red....

Darryl looked up, tired of digging. The sun was setting, but it was still at least 92 degrees outside. A jumbo jet flew overhead, followed by a couple of crows. He sighed and carved out a couple more shovel-fulls of sandy clay. Why did the cat have to die today? Yesterday when Darryl got home, he was greeted by his girlfriend's best friend Sara.

"Oh my god I'm so glad you're home. Your cat got hit by a VAN and he's in a coma, and Diana is about to DIE."

Darryl remembered when he was eight and his grandma's dog passed away. Nana's face had been red and kind of puffy, and she smelled like Kleenex. She had asked Darryl if he knew what heaven was. At eight, Darryl was sure heaven meant that dog and he were hanging out down at the river with his 3rd grade crush and daring each other to jump in naked.

Tonight, digging Max's grave, the welts on his hands reminded him that heaven was not skinny dipping in the river of his childhood; it was more than likely a cold beer and an air-conditioned room in an average apartment complex somewhere outside of Tucson. Maybe they could get a dog now.

For Example

19 February 2011

Mr. Cover Letter, Sr. Bane of My Existence

Company Hiring Managers

Everywhere, USA

Dear Mr. Letter,

Writing a cover letter is like:

• jumping through a fiery hoop of expectations.
• an awkward first phone date. (does anyone do that?)
• trying to impress your friend's perfect parents.
• taking that part of writing class in highschool all over again.
• putting really colorful pictures on the front of an ordinary pack of #2 pencils. either you want and will use the pencils or you don't and won't.

I will call you in the following week to schedule a time we can further discuss my disgust for you.

Sincerely,

I.M. Over It

P.S. Minimum wage college graduates everywhere can vouch for my sincerity.

Night is for Poetry.

Friday night we celebrated communion and poetry together, and here are the poems that I shared.

Pleasant Hill, MO

by Jennifer Addis

There is a foresty green tile in the bathroom

I will always remember-

I hid there from a pack of wild dogs one afternoon;

It was a long day in September.

I will always remember

ridges on the arched metal barn roof

It was a long day in September

as I perched atop the barn and saw a bull lose his hoof.

Ridges on the arched metal barn roof

Reminded me of corn cob kernel lines

as I perched atop the barn and saw a bull lose his hoof-

a routine chore done with those long steel tines.

Reminded of corn cob kernel lines,

Mom divided up the dinner meat in that old white house-

a routine chore done with those long steel tines,

and Dad unhitched the plows.

Mom divided up the dinner meat in that old white house-

I hid there from a pack of wild dogs one afternoon

and Dad unhitched the plows.

There is a foresty green tile in the bathroom.

SIGHT AND TOUCH

for Balthus

by Octavio Paz

The light holds them - weightless, real -

the white hill and the black oaks,

the path that runs on,

the tree that remains;

the rising light seeks its way,

a wavering river that sketches

its doubts and turns them to certainties,

a river of dawn across closed eyes;

the light sculpts the wind in the curtains,

makes each hour a living body,

comes into the room and slips off,

slipperless, along the edge of a knife;

the light creates woman in a mirror,

naked under the diaphanous leaves,

a glance can enchain her,

she vanishes with a blink;

the light touches the fruit, touches the invisible,

a pitcher for the eyes to drink clarity,

a clipped flower of flame, a sleepless candle

where the butterfly with black wings burns:

the light smoothes the creases in the sheets

and the folds of puberty,

it smolders in the fireplace, its flames shadows

that climb the walls like yearning ivy;

the light does not absolve or condemn,

it is neither just nor unjust,

the light with invisible hands constructs

the buildings of symmetry;

the light goes off through a path of reflections

and comes back to itself:

a hand that invents itself, an eye

that sees itself in its own inventions.

Light is time thinking about itself.