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2014 is halfway done! WOOT WOOT, we made it! I don’t know your struggles, but I know you have had them, and to you I say, WHOO HOO, WE ARE HALFWAY THERE AGAIN. That is worthy of celebration, I swear. I’ve let you hear me doubt myself, and even then I confess to some filtering, so I’m sure that in this past six months, you too have felt crappy, and self-conscious, and older than you are, and just plain ill. So, here’s to us, poemfriends. You “like” my poems, and I LOVE YOU because I need you. Here’s the thing. We are friends because we can tap into the giant pink cloud, and appreciate the results. You make stuff, and so do I, even though it is really, really hard sometimes.

There were a lot of things I wanted to do this year that I didn’t get around to….you too, I’d bet. That’s okay. We are amazing.

It’s super late. It is fitting that this halfway poem is a Wednesday poem.


Halfway Gone 

The poem equinox is a night without balance, and the works are uneven,

and the revelations of the day are spent on the adolescent and anarchical,

on all other half-days I’m fine with that.

Give me the formula for the radius of the muse and let me sit here,

and calculate how far is halfway gone.

How is midway to the moon? Are we there yet

is a little girl’s equation for how halfway to grandma’s.

Midlife crisis is a phrase in extinction, because we live in the future.

Is this, it is, halfway to knobby hands and backs like bent oak,

here we are, halfway to mourning, could it be halfway from the mind in the act of finding?

Could we be halfway to assurance and strut? Is this the median of doubt? This is halfway,

I think to somewhere close, but,

this is halfway to somewhere we can’t see.


Happy MidPoint, poem friends, and Happy Wednesday too. The “poem in the act of finding” is Wallace Stevens. I wonder if he ever found what would suffice? I wish I knew. Hugsies.