snip.

On the day we decided
That that house was the one
I remember standing outside for a few minutes, looking at it's strange front
On a block full of normal looking houses
It stood stoutly, starkly
Like the mexican restaurant of the block.

A huge Magnolia tree shaded it's front.
I had never seen one before--
The gigantic velvet blossoms softened my eyes.
When I begged you to say yes to the house I grinned and repeated:
"That's our tree! I know it!"

Later on, we groaned about the carpet of brittle brown leaves that it dropped,
But at night, the blossoms would shine like miniature moons
Reflecting the porch light when we came home.
To our home, our life.

And so on the last day that we owned it together--
On the last day that we had something that bound us together
With the hairy, prickly twine of complications and bills and legal documents,
Magnolia leaves and branches and blossoms...
I took the tree with me.

Settled, if unsettled.

Here I am.
Minus things. Plus things.

Happy Halloween!

From an Andrews Sister...


A 1920's Strongman...


Richie and Margot....


And Paula Deen (pictured: far right)

An Epic evening on the RVA Ghost Ship, followed by jumping in the river in 1/2 of our costumes (???) followed by going to Cous Cous soaking wet and dancing on the dancefloor for an hour, barefoot and soaked. Followed by Alladins.

All in all, the most wonderful Halloween EVER, minus one Alice Virginia McClain.

Nesting.

I'm packing up the things I want, slowly but surely
Because you said you don't want anything
And certainly not from me
And I'm taking the thick, green cups
And the 1950's radio
The Chinese laundromat sign that hung over the cabinet
My travel photo collection,
And all of the framed nonsense
The sanctified garbage that I clutch to my chest like treasure...

But I'm leaving the bowls.

10 glass bowls that nest inside one another
Given to me by your mother
With a winknudgenod
And a "All of the Cartwright women have these bowls..."
It was a small, silly gesture
That made my eyes wet behind thick rimmed glasses.
Just like it did today, as i opened the cabinet and placed my hand on them

Gently

The way you would palm the side of someones face,
When you were speaking true words that were hard to hear.
When you loved them enough to help them hold up their head.
I sat there holding the side of the thick, cool glass
Imagining other futures.

Birthday signals

How strange is it that today is my Dad's birthday, not hours ago I got
off the phone with him telling him of my wanderlust, and then I lay
down to read my copy of deadeye dick and I find this inscription from
before I was born, when my parents were in love and my dad had
apparently just returned from Saturn. Universe WHAT are you telling me?

Go West.

Of all the roofs we slept under together
And there were many:
(The treehouse in New Brunswick, that crowded Hunter Gatherer Lair,
A leaky, creaky rowhouse on Grace Street, the cement bungalow near the park...)
It was the only one we owned.
And the first time we did not follow our tradition
Sleeping on the floor for the first night, ordering pizza
Living in voluntary poverty for the romance of it - the silent nod that said:
We're doing this together for another year. Cheers.
Our time together measured in years, in houses, objects
In methodically arranged book spines on shelves.
In the year we spent there, not much changed.
Maybe that was where we went wrong.

And so today, we sold it all, to someone who will never know what happened before them.
To them, history begins today
And for us, darling, the book has closed.
I told Lisa I was fine, but when my pen hit the paper the tears flooded my entire body
Overwhelmed me, just for a moment.
I broke down behind closed doors, because of the finality of print, of ink, of final chapters.

Tonight I set my phone alarm for 9:17pm, a number that means something
(Because in my great big pulsing heart, I want everything to mean something,
to point somewhere, to conclude)
And when it rang I glanced through the crowd, when the coast was clear
Lifted my glass just a little, in a crowded room
Made a silent toast to you and to me.
Goodbye, dear love.

Before my jaw popped out, of course.

People say I exaggerate
That I make my stories more fanciful
For flair, for impact, to invoke magic, create metaphor...

And maybe I do.
But not this time.

Saturday night found us on a North Carolina island
And when we danced in the sand
(A giggly, fast-footed jig)
The sand underneath us lit up like the night sky
And the faster we danced, the more it glowed.
Bio-luminescent Zooplankton, he claims.
But I think it might just be proximity to each other, honestly.

The moon was a pirate's moon, golden and wrapped in grey clouds
And the wind was cold enough for matching Zissou hats
And Seu Jorge
But not cold enough to leave before running down the beach like little kids
Trying to find Dolphins and Blue Crabs and Sea Monsters and Tigers.

The non-metaphorical, non-poetic reality is this:
we were honestly running around the beach
In our steve zissou hats
Dancing on star sand and catching ghost crabs.

How to make a painting.

First, get the giggles out. You can't take yourself too seriously. Sometimes the giggles may last for a very long time. Hang in there.

Once you're serious, make sure you have the following things: a mustache, a red silk flower, aprons, and grins.

You may decide to use a pen-name that is very similar to your actual name, this is ok! It helps create mystique.

Enjoy your paintings, Jamie and Dustin.

State Fair!

good morning.

A dead owl on the side of the road.

Owls are omens, wisdom, the ability to see the hidden
And with no turnaround for the next 25 highway miles
He went 50 miles out of his way
To collect feathers, talons

And when he placed the limp, feathered saint
In the bed of his truck
It's mate followed, watching from above
As he shot through the darkness, down the same highway as before
Because there's only one road, really.

And then this morning, there's a feather from that owl
Sitting on the counter of my new apartment
And he says it's for me.

Tomorrow it begins.

All summer long, the sky has been filled
To the brim with water
Downpours threatening, but never arriving
Only a thick, smoky humidity through July and August
The sort of weather that makes you wait.

And then came September, and the sky opened.
Something changed.
The still-fertile ground, soaked
Delaying the browning of grass that comes with fall.
I wander the familiar streets of a city I was ready to leave behind
To run from, really
And my feet, my shoes are always soaked with rain.

And so tomorrow I sign a piece of paper
That says okay, I will stay.
But really, it's a love note
To sandy river shores,
To empty beer bottles, full ashtrays,
A bottle of Applejack tucked in my back pocket
To rooftop singalongs that leave me horse
To floodwalls and mayan ruins
To tiny toy tigers on motorcycles and drive-in movie dates
That leave me grinning into my pillow.

I will pack up my books and my birds, my maps and precious scraps
And start this new life off proper
With a high, hopeful heart
And a red silk flower behind my ear.

The rainstorm that cancelled bowling.

On a night we were trapped
Like sleepy fireflies in a car-shaped jar
On Forest Hill Avenue
As water poured from the sky
As if someone had stabbed a knife in the floor of heaven
And ripped the blade through the tender bottom
Only to discover that heaven wasn't sunlight and warmth
But overwhelming current, quick tide

On that night
We sat in silence, Joe Pug on the radio
And he sang "I've come to test the timbre of my heart,"
And every set of stairs to every apartment building
Was a waterfall
And every set of glasses in the car was fogged, rendered useless

We sat, waiting, and I tied knots in my fingers
Worrying, wishing I wasn't drunk
Wanting to grasp the silver handle and make a run for it
Let the current take me, give me a path or a reason
To do what I would do next

On that night I had less hope than I do now for what lies ahead.

Wedding weekend.

radiant.

green.

perfect.

first dance.


villain.

wow. 3am.

Here I come.

Come morning I am northward bound
Heading straight into the mouth of the past
Upturned corners forming a grin, stretching wide across the Rappahannock River.

In the southern states, Rivers are magnets.
They pull us towards them with strong arms
And there is comfort in the combination of their power and our own buoyancy.

Since before our feet could touch the muddy bottom
We have been told to stay afloat -- and our bodies have learned this lesson well.
At 26, I know my own strength, and know better than to underestimate
The strength of the current.

And so I prepare.
I pack too much underwear, every beauty product I own
I steam my dresses, pulling hard on the hems to erase wrinkles
Pulling hard on the filter of my cigarette to create some.
I pause at my jewelry box, my lucky ruby pendant, and consider the idea
That sentimentality is forgivable, allowed.
So I close the clasp around my neck and sigh, just once.

My stomach agiley flips in both delight for the people in my life whom I travel to celebrate with
And in anticipation of flooded river banks.
I pack my purple cut-offs and giggle to myself, and I say
Out loud in my empty bedroom, to no one in particular:
(Or maybe to Pasco the dog, who always stays near when he knows he's needed)
Here comes the flood.

For the heart

I still wear it, and I still think it's the best good luck charm there
ever was.

It makes me smile.

From a magpie.

A dear old friend sent this song to me in an email today, and she told me it would break my heart, but she said it was good for a Thursday on repeat, and boy was she right.



I feel so helpless now, my guitar is not around
and i'm struggling with the xylophone to make these feelings sound
and i'm remembering you singing and bringing you to life
It's raining out the window and today it looks like night

You haven't written to me in a week i wonder why that is
are you too nervous to be lovers-- friendships ruined with just one kiss kiss
I watched you very closely and i saw you look away
your eyes are either gray or blue i'm never close enough to say

But your sweatshirt says it all with the hood over your face
I can't keep staring at your mouth without wondering how it tastes
I'm with another boy (he's asleep, i'm wide awake )
and he tried to win my heart, but it's taken . . . . . time

I know the shape of your hands because i watch em when you talk
and i know the shape of your body cause i watch it when you walk
and i want to know it all but i'm giving you the lead . . . . .. . .. .
So go on, go on and take it, don't fake it, shake it

Don't second guess your feelings you were right from the start
and i notice she's your lover, but she's nowhere near your heart
This city is for strangers, like the sky is for the stars
But i think it's very dangerous if we do not take what's ours

And i'm winning you with words because i have no other way
I want to look into your face without your eyes turning away
Last night i watched you sing because a person has to try
And i walked home in the rain because a person can not lie

From the God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

"Some things come with their own punishments. Like bedrooms with built-in cupboards. They would all learn more about punishments soon. That they came in different sizes. That some were so big they were like cupboards with built-in bedrooms. You could spend your whole life in them, wandering through dark shelving."

Thursday.

Everything I can think to write
Is bullshit.
Because it's been written before.
In blacker ink and bluer blood,
On hotter days than this, on colder nights
By women who have lost more
Lost life, lost children, lost the sorts of things
That leave permanent gouges in the skin
Everything I could say has been said before - but not by me.

It's my first time on this trail.
I'm cutting away branches, ripping briars from my skin, toes sinking in mud, trudging forward
Bushwhacking my way through Thursdays, sleeping through Saturdays.
It feels like a concussion.
Me, begging everyone to let me fall asleep,
Them, slapping my face, keeping me up
Forward, they say.
And the vines on the trail grow so fast --like serpents, the sky darker.

scrawled on cement.

The summer grows hazier by the day.
Walking the pipeline last Sunday
When the river was clear and cold
My unsteady hands wavered and
The river claimed my compass.
I watched it sink
Into the mud and thought about diving after it
But I don't need direction when all I want to do
Is stand still.

I've been carrying a thick, white piece of chalk around with me
It marks up the inside of my back pocket
But it's useful for scrawling
Drawing hearts on buildings
"Do something pretty while you can" on the sidewalk at 3am.
I wrote your name
Smeared it with my hand
Not to take it away
But to take it with me
As I navigate this world without you
A time in my life which my poor, ragged heart
Will not allow me to think
is forever.

I'm proud of myself for something,
but I'm not quite sure what.

Harley family

Oh yes.

Procession

A police escort
7 bikes of marines
Us 8 in the limo
And at least 50 cars follow
Goodbye uncle mike.

Four bronze stars, one golden heart. RIP uncle mike.

PEABODY — Mr. Michael Kehoe, 67, a longtime resident of Peabody, passed away peacefully Wednesday, July 8, 2009 after a brief illness. He was born April 11, 1942 in Brooklyn, N.Y., son of the late Michael Leo and Margaret (Mooney) Kehoe.

A former Marine Corps Sergeant, from 1960 to 1968, he was a Drill Instructor at Parris Island, S.C. He was a disabled veteran who served faithfully with the Thundering Third Battalion Fourth Regiment of Marines Company "I" in Vietnam from 1967 to 1968. He was the recipient of the Vietnam Service Medal with four bronze stars, the Meritorious Unit Commendation Ribbon with one bronze star, Republic of Vietnam Meritorious Unit Citation, and the Gallantry Cross Medal. Following his military career, he entered law enforcement and retired in 1993 from the Swampscott Police Department as Sergeant after a 23 year career.

He is survived by his wife of 44 years, Carol-Lee (Armstrong) Kehoe; a daughter Patricia Elaine (Kehoe) and son-in-law Michael Peturrson of Leicester; a son Sean Michael and daughter-in-law Tanya (Anderson) Kehoe of Kensington, N.H.; a granddaughter Lee-Ann Pereira and great-grandson Adam Pereira of Peabody; two step-grandchildren Hayden and Elizabeth Petursson. He also leaves behind three sisters, Patricia Cannon and her husband Bernard of Long Island, NY, Margaret Massa and her husband Lawrence of Brooklyn, NY and Ann-Marie Stone and her husband Bruce of Port Monmouth, NJ, one brother James Kehoe and his wife Maureen of Middletown, N.J.; a sister-in-law Robin Talbot Thebodeau of Dublin, N.H. as well as many nieces and nephews.

He was an Honorary Life Member of the American Legion Post 227 in Middleton where he served as Commander for several years, life member of Marine Corps League in Peabody, member of US Marine Corps Drill Instructors Association, Member of VFW Post 1240 in Peabody, life member of AMVETS Post 6 in Lynn, member of Disabled American Veterans Chapter 100 in Peabody, and former member of the Blue Knights of Topsfield.

ARRANGEMENTS:- His funeral service will be held in the Peterson-O'Donnell Funeral Home, 167 Maple St. (Route 62), Danvers, Saturday, at 10 a.m. Relatives and friends invited. Visiting hours Friday 4 to 7 p.m. Interment in Puritan Lawn Memorial Park, Peabody. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the America's Vet Dog Program, in Memory of Michael Kehoe, 371 East Jericho Turnpike, Smithtown, NY 11787 Or American Legion Post 227 Scholarship Fund, P.O. Box 227, Middleton, MA 01949. For more information inquire at 978-774-6600. Online guest book at www.legacy.com.

Week 1

The first Thursday was beautiful and warm
My hands shook as I parked the car
And I knew
That most likely the black bean and corn thing
That I choose for you from ellwoods
Would be my melancholy Friday lunch
But for the first time in my life
I can see clearly
That there are some things worth waiting for.

jackie has entered text.

Having no faith, I don't lift my eyes in times of sorrow. I wish I believed in Jesus, and so in times of trouble I think about him like I would a fairytale, and try to extract the homily behind the stories. I've found:

Be Kind.
Think of others before yourself.
Show unconditional love.
Right your wrongs.
Honor your family.
Forgive.
Sacrifice whatever it takes for the people you love.

During my greatest test, I did none of these things.

There's something in fiction that gives us hope for our own non-fiction. If the stories can build tension, crescendo, collapse on themselves and still end with someone alive at the end, then perhaps there's hope for us real life folks, too.

Stand up, Lazarus. This is not the end.

You are the better broken half.