I am ugly like tomorrow.

the body is bent but not broken
it is now like a pretzel
salted wrapped and brown
the long summer days are wrapped around this valley
like the weeks are wrapped around the months
the way that the years are wrapped around our lives
the way that the body is wrapped around the heart
the feet are planted on the solid body of the earth
the face looks up to the sky
the pretzel is delicious and is covered with spicy mustard
the exhaustion is very real
and pulls at the tendons beneath the flesh
and some of the salt and mustard falls to the ground
is this the day
is this even the year
bless you bless me,
bless us all every single one

fallen leaves from the crape myrtle trees blanket the cracked patio blue sky a clear December morning a cup of strong coffee in my hand and birds chirping off in the distance

I am a fish out of water throwing rocks at your window. I miss the river. Death has nude photographs of me from hacking my cell phone. I am not beautiful, no, I am ugly like tomorrow. I have scars like diamond mines and there are calluses on my frontal lobe, right where Jung said they would be. I don't care what you think about that. I don't really care what you think about anything except kindness. When I was still in the water I would record my dreams in liquid words. That was in another world, not this world. A different world, that only you and I could see, where you and I move like long shadows in the late afternoon. This is the world of children with guns in their hands. The world where kindness has become a shadow, or hides in the shadows. I am no longer sure which. I can't breathe this way, I need the water. I am a fish out of water throwing rocks at your window. I have one last rock to throw, and it's a big one, blue like the river.

a ladybug crawls on a blade of grass 

what about it everything 

the universe lends itself to the moment

by james lee jobe 

James Carr, 1966, Poring Water On A Drowning Man

Link: Doxorubicin: Infusion, a poem by Laura Paul Watson

Link: My Friend, Her Grandson, a poem by Pia Täavila-Borsheim

"Pay more attention to the silence than to the sounds. Paying attention to outer silence creates inner silence: the mind becomes still." 

-Eckhart Tolle

"To what shall I liken the world? Moonlight, reflected in dewdrops, shaken from a crane's bill?" 

-Dōgen Zenji

Hello. If you enjoy this blog, and I hope that you do, please consider making a donation through the BUY ME A COFFEE button below. It's done safely online, and just takes a moment. I could use the supplement since my mobility issues no longer allow me to work. 

Thanks! -James