dangerous compassions

I call you / from the comet's cradle

Sunday, August 06, 2017


I'm up in the night, sleepy but sleepless with heartburn.  There's no medicine in the cabinet for it, and I'm too stubborn to go to the store with Ming.  I wrote a couple emails.

Wrote a poem today.  I like it.  It's called "home."

I think about home, like where's my home now?

Looks like we're going to Ventura on Monday to see an old friend I've known 27 years or so.  But there were some years we were out of touch.  She is a loyal and kind person.  A reader.  She knows about things unknown to me, like fashion.  And she goes to butcher shops and I think she cooks fancy.  She lived in Berkeley for a long time.  Hi, R, if you're reading.

And we made plans to camp and see our friend in the woods.  I feel excited.  That's next week.  Wish it was sooner.

My brother read my book and said it's fuckin' amazing.  He especially likes the poem about salmon.  He is in it, barfing over the side of the boat.

Ming's sleeping with his cellphone by his side and his closed chromebook on his torso.  He loves his tech.


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