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The Mean Four-AMs are back. I am both cursed and blessed by my mind’s desire to waken early. Before my ability to actually rise, my brain emerges from sleepdust to try to really, actually, sort shit out. I wish it wouldn’t. My beloved husband does not have this particular affliction, and is granted the blessed ability to sleep solidly at any moment he chooses, without real thoughts breaking into his dreaming. I’ve witnessed his ability to hit snooze and then to fall immediately back into a heavy and regular pattern of snooze.

This morning in the early hours I had a vision. I don’t know what most visions feel like, haven been given precious few in my life. But this morning I had the present of being given this great image to work with: I began in dreaming, with an icicle hanging directly above my forehead, dripping. It was dripping, constantly and with perfect feeling, onto the middle of my forehead. Two hours or two seconds later I woke to the idea of the third eye.  The third eye is a symbol used to depict a seeing beyond perception. I do wish I had one.

Anyhow, my icicle droplets eventually turned into the alarm clock, and I’ve been left wishing I actually had the vision promised in the droplets.

third_eye-198x300

Doesn’t that mask look enlightened? What does the third eye mean? Doesn’t it somehow mean an extra special way of seeing? Yep, I’d like that.

In fact, today I’d barter for it. I’ve been feeling run dry, like the art has been rushed, and splurted rather than cultivated, and like WAHHHHHH, I DON’T WANT TO POEM, I’D RATHER WATCH KARDASHIANS AND READ MY VANITY FAIR, WAHHHHH.

Poor me. The other thing I’ve realized recently is that I had a pretty major anniversary recently, of my mastectomy and reconstruction, and that was a pretty major thing in my recent history that deserves to be acknowledged. Sometimes I’d rather not.  So, Feb. 5th, last year, you were a scary day.

So, this:

Forgotten Anniversaries

There’s something I want to say to the ant. “Hey ant. Put down your burden. This is the one-year anniversary of your carrying”. If you wish, you wish for a change of systems. For a change of systems, and for new material.

There is something I want to say to the snow on the tin. You sound like browning venison and cold steps.

Every key is made to fit a keyhole, and every unlocking sounds like the boot step. This is what I want to say.

Something I want to say to the kettle whistle. Slow down. We are listening. Writing, I listen. Talking, listen. Reading and phoning and looking, listen.

It’s the sounds behind the thing that make it up. The laughter, big whine, and grind. The train passes.

The icicle is the clock. Ticking. Ticking. There is something I want to say to the drops.

I want to say drink.

Drink and listen to the swallow.

There is something I want to say to the tree.

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My computer has just informed me that it is turning off…but, I must tell you first that I totally meant that line to be the last.  Really. I did. How are you, poemies? How are you listening tonight? Happy Monday!

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