Friday, April 12, 2019





—SOME PEOPLE SEARCH FOR A FOUNTAIN


…For better or worse, I consider myself a fiction writer, and a poet.  Creative Non-fiction, or essays, have never had much appeal to me and so I’ve shied away from them.  When I do write one, it always feels like my weakest, most basic writing, as if I can’t make the words sing like they typically do.  The funny thing is, the last year my non-fiction stuff has gotten the most attention, and most commentary of almost anything I’ve had published, which is something because I’m closing in on 1,200 published pieces.

...The CNF below was very hard to write and was without a doubt the most emotional and vulnerable thing I’ve ever written (that wasn’t cloaked in fiction). 
I’ve never gotten so many kind notes about a piece in my life.  Some of them actually made me weepy.  Some said the piece made them weep.  And every day there are more notes, more people sharing the essay.  It’s pretty shocking, and very humbling.

…This one, too (below), got a fair amount of attention and response.  Maybe as one of my best friends told me lately, I’m meant to be a CNF writer instead.

…I’m been reading all the headlines lately, but nothing underneath.

…I wrote about 50 plus pieces last week.  They weren’t all pretty, that’s for sure.  But it felt good.  Like tossing some bricks off my shoulders, then adding a few more.

…It helps to read great prose, writing that shakes up or subverts languages in ways that gives you pause.  I’ve read so much of late.  It’s helping keep me sane.
Here are some that will knock you over, or out, all for different reasons:
We Were Meant To Carry Water—Tina Carlson. Stella Reed, Katherine DiBella Seluja
Secure Your Own Mask—Shaindel Beers
The Carrying—Ada Limón
Before Isadore—Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick
Citizen—Claudia Rankine
Egypt From Space—Beckian Fritz Goldberg
Night Sky With Exit Wounds—Ocean Vuong

…After nearly a year and a half in hospice, the mother of one of my best friends died the other day.  Like many of us, she had a complicated relationship with her mom, but the experience gutted her, and thus it gutted me to know how much she was hurting.
When I got the news, I wrote this:

What The Trees Have To Tell Us
                      for Karen

Let’s not speak of
dust or death. 
The trees have so much
more to tell us. 
Like how you were
formed of star-shine, gold leaf and,
her, of course.
Like how that happenstance
often left you addled or
asking the mirror why?
Why her?
Why me?
Why us? 
Just don’t forget the trees,
what nature knows.
Its read every story
of your childhood,
girlhood and
womanhood,
that litany of singular triumphs,
those silent victories you thought
no one recognized but you.
Silly girl.  The trees noticed! 
Could you not hear them,
clapping their dewy leaves
at your first recital? 
Did you not see them,
standing at attention
when you walked by? 
Swooping with joy when that
first boy kissed you? 
Shedding their souls when that
other boy shattered your heart? 
I promise you,
they were there. 
They were always there.
And, of course,
all that time you also
belonged to her,
were made of her,
were sewn together with the
the frail and complex parts of her. 
She, the seedling that
burrowed beneath your breastbone,
sometimes alarming,
other times an irritant,
but always the sapling,
the bud and breath of life.
So, let’s take a walk, shall we,
you and I?
Out to the woods, the park,
the mountainside where the
trees lean and lurch and disburse
their catacombs of wisdom.   
For once, let’s
hear what they have to say. 
Then, let’s bury the ash
in their branches,
watch the wind set it afloat
until it settles on other fertile soil
where another girl
who looks like you
looks up with her
arms and heart
wide open.


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