You could stitch a dotted ring around an indigo moon. The houses below evidence diamonds and trefoils and zigzags, all manner of pattern. Somewhere a child bellyaches. Somewhere else an owl calls out, mournful. Haven’t we expressed all our sadnesses already? The trefoil stamp of trauma, the zigzag edge of semi-repair?
You can’t fool the moon or the lightning striping the sky at dusk.
When the red-tailed hawk screeches, we know to look up. But that’s all we know.
Make your move motherfucker is one way to respond to upcoming events on The Hill. Preemptive bullshit. Flowing like a river into microphones and screens. I wish we hadn’t needed a word like “sane-washing.” And journalists? Please! Even Carl Bernstein wishes he was still on the beat. Imagine Deep Throat withholding evidence to promote his upcoming book release.
The hawk rides the thermal climes – yes, we have thermal climes even in suburbia. If you’re really blessed and it’s a clear day, the sun will illuminate the red wedge of her tail turning feathers into stained glass.
Who you gonna call? Motherfuckers of so many ilks, it makes the head spin. To say “felon” doesn’t quite capture the in-law’s tawdry sadistic infliction of pain upon his own sister. Too bad the French won’t say, Sorry motherfucker — your visa is no good here. So many roiling nations – it’s as if our national disaster is contagious – France, South Korea, Germany, Syria. And Gaza can’t catch a break.
We look for heroes in the strangest of places. Turns out the healthcare CEO assassin comes from money and privilege. Sorry, ladies. Worse, he liked posts by the South African Dipshit Brigade.
But what of poetry you say? What of the elegant, nearly effortless dip of the hawk gliding on the air currents, currents that sweep over even your suburban rooftops? What of these expressions of grace?
The greasy bundle of vice is no longer a fluke. Not a despicable and regrettable error this time. No. Americans knew who they were voting for. Sort of.
He’s grinning in front of Notre Dame and shaking Macron’s hand like he wants to rip that man’s shoulder out of its socket. To see it is to wonder: how will I survive this? How will we survive this? Will we survive this?
Hope is a scratchy wool cape that I put on to address certain people. Underneath, endless itching. Underneath, angry red striping rashes that cannot be ignored. Underneath, deposits of body-ash and rubble-ash that floated in from Gaza. The dusty grey evidence of wickedness lines my collarbones. What washcloth is up to the task?
Get fat. Go hide. Get fat and go hide. Gather preemptive condolences for the retirement of your former self. Sputter, motherfucker, motherfucker, like somebody’s listening, like it’s a badge of honor even if no one is listening and it’s not a badge of anything.
The heat wooshes, reminding me that all the coming misery will take place on a timeline, in a framework of seasons. Does it help to think that? Does anything?
Powerful writing. Powerful art.
Thank you. It’s good to be heard.
Timelines, seasonal adjustment…January is my anniversary month as well as my husband’s birth month, a double time of celebration. January 10th, 2025 will be our 55th anniversary, January 12th, 2025 will be my husbands 82nd birthday, January 20th, 2025 we all will be in the muck, cesspool, and quick sand that is the coming administration, in other words, we all will be in Hell. As an ex-Catholic, I think of the concepts of limbo and purgatory but don’t feel any distinction between the two these days…a pathway to Heaven, aka Democracy, seems to have fallen into a huge sinkhole but make no mistake, I am not stepping into the quicksand or sink hole. There are moments of quiet joy ahead, the Winter Solstice for one this month, as well as yuletide chats with family and the two personal celebrations that I mentioned above in January… As for the other date on the January calendar, well, I will give a “Grito” into the wind. Grito is the Spanish word for yell and here in New Mexico, the winds are fierce and so is my Grito !
55 years married. Wow! And an 82nd birthday. Both definitely worthy of celebration. I hope we all can avoid stepping into the quicksand. Or can grab a friend’s arm when they slip. Pull them out. There’s no avoiding what’s coming.
Very powerful, Dee. Thank you for your strong voice. Yes, we can hold one another up. Don’t buckle. And “gird your loins!”
Thank you for being here. As Joyce Vance likes to say, “We’re in this together.”
Dee~
So power-filled. Some of your best writing ever.
May we all hang on together. ❤️
Yes Nancy. Your examples of gratitude and close observation inspire me every week.
(((Dee))) I love your fierce wild spirit!
I love it when you write like this … can well imagine you reading the raw output to a writing group as they try to take in the incredible flow of mental images it evokes … last night our tv sat dark and silent as I chuckled my way through Instagram reels of cats and cows and other sillinesses … I don’t need to hear MSNBC pile on yet more stuff to worry over, things that are beyond my ability to influence beyond sending pleas to my Republican representatives to please please please resist … as if … and god help Texas, as Greg Abbott will surely get his beloved school vouchers passed and Ken Paxton will continue to sue anyone who does anything that isn’t dipped in blood red ink … and so we will patch together words and cloth and images for four long years … hoping beyond hope that something might change in two years, which is still too long to wait
Texas. Ooh boy. I get the reel-escape.