a buzzi-in the
air - for a holiday
- for a heated
and the coffee
is slow and
we can pretend
for a while,
with our pink
breeze on our
it's been a
few days, i've
then i shall
much too busy.
the buzz of
the CBC alerts
in the winter,
it is, in
angst, it is,
in spite of
doubt, it is,
in spite of
a full heart,
a full chest,
from time to
i'm happy to
bursts with a
my how time
does fly -
made it through the night.
the rested morning, through frustrations, turned into a
viral afternoon and evening.
i've made it through to the other side, the rear
intercostals reminding me.
let's move on; it's a brand new day; it's a wet day, but a
warm one, in my little oasis,
and every time i so much as speak that word i think of an
era bygone, where Roberta Flack sung in her way
and no one knew of i tunes. not even the i.
so alive, i sit outside, today are ballet things and a
deadline for poots, make it past those.
tippy toes i hear on the wood floor, they stop for coffee,
they are grown.
they kiss my sickly dirty head and return inside.
the internet is becoming a quieter place for me; louder for
some and commonplace.
the rat-a-tat-tat which i used to anticipate so, has quelled
now as we turn into television
and as the World Cup Beckons. and summer approaches. this
internet, with it's magical glory,
is nearly now as faded a memory as Roberta, it sings along
in the background, while we dream
of Movie sections of the newspaper pinned to the wall, we
are happy to dream, we are,
after a violent viral night, we are just happy to smell the
rain, sip the coffee, think pleasantly again about food,
and think about something other than survival.
it's june 25th. it's someone's birthday. it is, indeed, the
summer of 2014.
you small creature who ravaged me, i have survived, so have
but i am the one who is happy to have done so.
calm, it's a
and i'm alone.
all i wanted
to do was come
slowly sip my
but do you
think i could
after a week
in it's place,
i had more
steps on a
i've drunk my
most do in a
so here i am,
driven by that
small piece of
driven by such
i thought when
i woke up.
mostly what i
to begin this
we can rewind
as many days
months as we
like but the
and when i've
slept, i know
that, and when
under a rock.
under a rock
it's all about
yeah, i guess
what i wanted
this was the
wakeup of the
we need to
out of our
art is valued;
well, i don't
three sets of
early to bed
nicely, on a
sofa which was
now a morning
of three, all
peeing and one
the same time,
beams, i am
movement in my
so that it can
it means to be
only time can
do, to see
what form it
whether i feel like writing anything,
had an hour to write a
song, waking in a panic,
that was worse than
choosing a school.
thank God that's over. i
had nearly done it,
although i spent longer
counting how many
years they had been
married. that was after
running through the
woods with a bunch of
strangers for an entire
day with japanese
instruments. why do we
dream, my brain
was busy enough with
nearly the solstice,
sleep left poots achy
and creaky. the neck is
stiff, the feet are
and i don't really know
three weeks is long
you came back.
it's a new morning, how different one
from the next. spilling tears of joy, of pain, of
and inbox messages from people looking for work that
i'm allowed to ignore,
fills me with power, for the first time.
describing in the third person, how i feel, is
admittedly tricky today;
that word i never believe, for how can emotions be
anything but crystal clear;
but now i can go to work, i can think about dinner, i
this is my sap.
a child stole my first hug after Lufthansa 474
and because i love them both so freely,
i didn't mind. i didn't mind at all.
3 marvelous years
i try to be kind; stepping out of the
limelight or celebrating what's rightly mine quietly;
but today, today is a day like no other, and today i
never has there been a day like that. in many travels;
in many countries; with many people;
nothing will ever match it's wonder and glory; a
glorious gift and magical electricity
that left me spinning, that spins me still, and always
that was the chance of a lifetime, mustered courage,
sealed by the only fate i have ever believe in.
just one kiss. all it took.
Closed my eyes to dream and dreamt my way all the way to
i've sent music to the other room; who can hear it.
i've double-booked myself;
i've never been to Carrickfergus, i've never known real
I wish I was in Carrickfergus
Only for nights in Ballygrand
I would swim over the deepest ocean
The deepest ocean for my love to find
But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over
Neither have I wings to fly
If I could find me a handsome boatsman
To ferry me over to my love and die
laundry, lonely, and Chopin.
the steak we shared before your flight seems like
part of ancient history to me now;
for what is a steak, even a terrible one, if i
don't hear your voice for eighteen days.
you stole my heart; stole it clean.
i would have never given it up like this,
no, that is not something i ever would have done.
really bad coffee wakes a well-slept poot all alone.
without you, time, and even space, takes on a different
i'm smaller, i'm prettier,
weak i n the knees, i write my own songs,
well, i used to.
serena now, transports me back to a transitive time, i'm
not remembering any particular space,
only driving in a fancy car, with leather seats, it's
just me, in that car, with that music,
until i broke free, i broke free. i broke free back into
those transitive times; so very few, and far
and you, without any constraints, posting German songs,
is the part or you i will never know,
which is fine by me.
if i ever were a singer, i'd be serena ryder.
time for running.
empty belly for poots, an L mug with awful awfully new
cranking open a window in the rain and the cool breeze
cherry juice will save my life, my body, rested, wants
now to move.
the light at the end of the tunnel is now in view; hope
this slow torture of time will end. i think i can feel
the same thought tumble in my brain, over, and over, and
they are washed, pre-washed, and soaked.
this is her life, too, chewing on the same thoughts
until they either bore you,
freak you out, or motivate you to get up.
what is the alternative. i cannot see one.
do i feel less alone after speedily typing a paragraph
yes, somehow i do.
the urge to shop violently replaces the bliss i get from
it's a violence because it won't let go of me.
what old people know.
it only dawned on me today that i'm not using my best
skills in my work.
6:50 am. rain.
sounds manageabe before my coffee.
straight-falling rain in this shiny green city morning,
walking aimlessly through my pennance and drinking bad
lots of cheek-chewing made it through the night. numb
and fragile, here i am. no running in the rain. more
there's a tension mounting; a tightness in the chest;
yes, you know about my chest, don't you, it's thin,
ravaged by time,
bony, but not yet wrinkled. at what age do breasts
wrinkle, mark these glorious words poots, the age before
when things happen, do you see them as fateful, does it
depend on what they are, on who jumps the hedges?
or is it all manifest destiny. as each day moves into
history, my fate was sealed, was crafted, was meant to
it still seems that the only reason for anything to have
ever happened to me at all, was for this. for us.
in writing, it sounds really dumb. i'll write it
quicikly here before coffee. BC.
and i'll save it, marking these glorious words, without
mention of any plans for fate,
because fate is doomed to happen, and God willing,
i want no part in creating it.
T-6, let's try this again. counting down
in slow motion. really slow.
how did poots go from a food-obsessed foodie to running
out of coffee,
milk, and food, all in one day. where are those weekly
overflowing and expensive baskets,
pushed through parking lots, overflowing with large
sacks of exotic rice, asparagus, and
once, an entire set of cutlery mistakenly not paid for,
tucked under a case of something at the
bottom of the cart.
the cherry juice seems to have worked its wonders,
managing to fight off 4:21 AM with no sign of you.
and now i refer to someone else around here; it's an
intrusion in normal mEpworld, whose normal
third person talk is slowing evolving into including
him. my world now includes someone else.
but are they really separable anymore, if i have really
i was supposed to write how the mEp somehow isn't about
but i guess it is.
6:41am BC (before
T-7 doesn't sound as delicious as i thought it would.
comfort in one whole week is sparse.
i dropped the first coffee and nearly hung the world
not the best night of cherry sleep ever
walking these long hallways without you, although the
hope you bring lingers, takes longer.
sipping this coffee takes longer, writing the mEp takes
longer. time is warped outwards.
analyses of eleven year old personas comes with trips
across the mercier bridge;
how can a tiny person see things so clearly, and know
it. not sure it often helps.
the second round of coffee not as good as the first,
i'll keep typing in spite of little inspiration sore
T-7. sounds like forever. more coffee please.
i'm back here tonight, without you, to be
the plants are growing
my love is growing
coffee rituals without you
measuring the coffee in 3/4
throwing away cold coffee
lots of nature on my wall;
where are you is all i care about
spitting out piles of letters on this
glorious weather day is proving hard.
the nabob goes tick, tick, tick.
is anyone following? listening?
does anyone know what is going on here. i know i don't.
not about me.
as i watch june of two thousand
fourteen pass by me,
waking and sleeping with trepidation, i wait.
god willing, june 17 will arrive, marking that day like no
other, for better, or for worse.
i think of simon, his garden, and his lobster salad.
i think of sepulveda boulevard for some reason.
i try to focus on far-off places, far away faces,
anything to avoid the waiting.
you don't know what i'm waiting for; yet you do.
you have waited; baited;
you have wondered how cards would fall.
it's not my strong suit.
so many stories of you in my head
photo by you :-)
here is poots.
not a device chimes.
she is wiser than her words; wiser than her peers; and
sometimes, wiser than me.
which school could possible be good enough.
i'm not running yet, still in the dark, drugging up the
contemplating this morning, this space which you are
envious of (all of you)
because in this space, i am free to feel, to speak, and
to not speak;
within these digital walls, literally, and,
figuratively, i figure.
we're entering poetry contests with broken credit cards
we're refusing mistaken birthday wishes;
we're answering questions about hotels; surveys about
and keeping abreast about whichever world events the CBC
decides we should.
we're laying here, bare-breasted (tmi for some of you),
wondering which is our natural state
and how does a woman go from hiding herself to giving
i will wake up.
a text about
the value of cherry juice caught me by surprise before i
wheeled over town
and then i thought, who wouldn't be caught zooming down
this street on a diamondback
at eleven o'clock at night. i just like doing what's out
of the ordinary. that's all.
a new day greets me, on tuesday, barely, and the world
is way too awake thru my window.
her blanket still hangs. the porch light is on. maybe
for certain today i am a big lump of mushy.
as we learned yesterday, this is not only real but in
the figurative sense.
muSR love notes filter in, he has his idea of what the
weirdest part is, but i so trump him
because his email, whose eager remix message
notification didn't wake me at 4:12 am
is skipping beats of my heart
as the espresso slowly wakes it.
how long have i known this man, how long will he fill me
in the space between sleeping, waking, and love,
i know the answer to both
SUNLIGHT filters through the trees
CHAOS filters through my mind
ESPRESSO filters through the filter
i watch the space around me, my fleeting thoughts
bounce from her, to him, to her, to him,
like an unresolved ping pong game, which only reminds me
of her grades in gym.
cherry juice, in all it's glory, does not have a hope in
hell against too much rose.
writing today is not cutting through the fog
but a letter from you is nice. always nice.
lovers locks, Pecs, Hungary.
the mEp ... my Electronic
pen . . . the 2014 edition and all of the contents therein are
copyright Poot's Place
1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004,
2005, 2006, 2007, 2008,2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 and
2013 and 2014
All photography original unless otherwise