Archive for ‘Prose’

September 7, 2010

Funny folks are really glum on the inside.

I know.

July 20, 2010

Things and Stuff

I remember, when I was younger, I would think to myself when something particularly good or exceptional or bad or small happened, “Remember this, because it will come in handy later.” I didn’t think I actually had a good reason for doing that at the time, but I now see the value in the things I arbitrarily made myself memorize. These things weren’t useful in a practical manner, like time tables or citation guidelines; they were just things that happened to me, around me. Things like falling on Jessie’s treadmill, teaching Levi how to waltz in the girl’s locker room, Twila telling me off at a basketball game for trying to talk to her too much. Things like Dad crushing a toy train under his boot, my brother drawing on the bedroom wall, the crab soup Mom would make while we waited for Dad to come home. They seem little now, but not in an insignificant way. It’s more of a precious kind of quality. Stuff that I remember, that I love remembering.

Just things.

March 24, 2010

What He Said to Me

God have mercy on any man who falls in love with you.

I love you.

I’m still in love with you.

I can’t hate you.

Are we going to work?

I think I’m in love with you, Melissa Henson.

It’s so much easier to just not speak with me

at all.

March 23, 2010

I’m thinking about my dad. I visited his grave the other day on my way back to KC; I cleaned it off and dug the dirt out of the letters on the tombstone with my fingernails. There were no flowers. I walked around. I laid down. I miss his big hands and tattoos.

I was carving wood today and I thought of him. The layers of the wood reminded me of skin, of decomposition. I remembered his body lying in the bed. I remembered his bruised blue and purple hands and feet. I remember my mom crying. Her birthday was the following day.

I remember the first time I ate corn on the cob. He taught me how to eat it. Lawn mowing, flower-picking, seven bean soup, log cabin, vanilla ice cream every night. I remember all these things he did. He never left me out.

Memories are bittersweet.

February 28, 2010


Every time he leaves I am depressed for a week. How can he still do that?

February 23, 2010

From Jan. 29, ’10: Whoever Said…

…that art is easy was and is and will forever be a fool. If it’s easy then you’re doing it wrong.