C.A. MacConnell
11/30/2019
11/29/2019
The Purple-haired Girl
Sweat makes sense, but I know the animals
Are free,
So why am I the
Help.
Meanwhile.
Find some tight clothes for the
Family.
I am speaking to thousands.
My forehead presses
Against yours, as if we are
Two cats.
-- C.A. MacConnell
Are free,
So why am I the
Help.
Meanwhile.
Find some tight clothes for the
Family.
I am speaking to thousands.
My forehead presses
Against yours, as if we are
Two cats.
-- C.A. MacConnell
11/28/2019
11/25/2019
11/24/2019
11/23/2019
11/21/2019
11/13/2019
11/12/2019
From the Lion.
from the point of view of the Lion...
From the Lion
Hm, yes, I have leftover
cheetah. Gnawing on the closer thigh.
Maz, the oldest, steals the right.
Sometimes, I let her.
I took cheetah by the vein
this afternoon. He was a slick, pale friend, an albino,
so rare,
but I was empty, and his paw was dragging,
so I saw it as a sign
to hit the neck.
He didn't go down easy.
I roll my eyes, checking. Hm, all of the ladies
are still mine. And the snake...
he's nothing to lose sleep about.
Hazel could take his head off with one
swipe. She probably will if he slides
too close to her Five.
Tomorrow, we're planning on antelope,
and the nap will be fine.
Man. Lately, a blue one stands
on his hind legs, holding a bad stick,
and he's been hunting me.
He thinks he is blending,
but I can smell him through the
leaves,
thirty trees back.
He's not one of us.
He's hairless, but for the head and chin.
I hear from Maz
that Stick Man wants to wear my teeth --
hang them from his chest --
for no reason at all, just because.
Hm, yes, today, in my free time,
I will peel him
apart like a gutted mango.
My tongue won't like him,
but I'll juice him slowly
when he moves the leaf
near the ladies and the kids and the rock.
I love one lady. Salta's eyes, gold
and black, hold sunrise and nighttime.
She has Four, and most days,
they're sucking anyone's tit.
Hm, soon, they will find mice.
And when they pass double hot years,
I'll tell them
to find another stretch, green or yellow,
to call home,
but if they don't listen,
I'll bury them, just because.
I hear something -- a wing.
Tomorrow, change of plans. Lunch will be birds.
Salta's hiding by the stones.
I stay away. Now is not the time.
She would fight me to the death,
even though they're mine.
And she might win. Hm,
I love her.
Now I see dirty Bubba sliding through the grass.
He wants to be king. He'll kill
the little ones. I prepare for a teeth
gnashing. If I win, he will be no more.
If he wins, I will become a dry tree,
or a green blade, or a stone,
so my father told me. In case the Stick Man wonders,
we kill, we eat, we sleep, we are reborn,
and then we go back
to the dust, just because.
Bubba turns away.
Maybe his ears hurt. The sky is talking.
Maybe he isn't in the mood.
I lick my paws clean, just because.
Hazel and Maz are yawning,
and Salta is growling, all pretty teeth.
Number Three kid looks like me.
I guess I have to go take care of this.
The snake is hugging him.
C.A. MacConnell
From the Lion
Hm, yes, I have leftover
cheetah. Gnawing on the closer thigh.
Maz, the oldest, steals the right.
Sometimes, I let her.
I took cheetah by the vein
this afternoon. He was a slick, pale friend, an albino,
so rare,
but I was empty, and his paw was dragging,
so I saw it as a sign
to hit the neck.
He didn't go down easy.
I roll my eyes, checking. Hm, all of the ladies
are still mine. And the snake...
he's nothing to lose sleep about.
Hazel could take his head off with one
swipe. She probably will if he slides
too close to her Five.
Tomorrow, we're planning on antelope,
and the nap will be fine.
Man. Lately, a blue one stands
on his hind legs, holding a bad stick,
and he's been hunting me.
He thinks he is blending,
but I can smell him through the
leaves,
thirty trees back.
He's not one of us.
He's hairless, but for the head and chin.
I hear from Maz
that Stick Man wants to wear my teeth --
hang them from his chest --
for no reason at all, just because.
Hm, yes, today, in my free time,
I will peel him
apart like a gutted mango.
My tongue won't like him,
but I'll juice him slowly
when he moves the leaf
near the ladies and the kids and the rock.
I love one lady. Salta's eyes, gold
and black, hold sunrise and nighttime.
She has Four, and most days,
they're sucking anyone's tit.
Hm, soon, they will find mice.
And when they pass double hot years,
I'll tell them
to find another stretch, green or yellow,
to call home,
but if they don't listen,
I'll bury them, just because.
I hear something -- a wing.
Tomorrow, change of plans. Lunch will be birds.
Salta's hiding by the stones.
I stay away. Now is not the time.
She would fight me to the death,
even though they're mine.
And she might win. Hm,
I love her.
Now I see dirty Bubba sliding through the grass.
He wants to be king. He'll kill
the little ones. I prepare for a teeth
gnashing. If I win, he will be no more.
If he wins, I will become a dry tree,
or a green blade, or a stone,
so my father told me. In case the Stick Man wonders,
we kill, we eat, we sleep, we are reborn,
and then we go back
to the dust, just because.
Bubba turns away.
Maybe his ears hurt. The sky is talking.
Maybe he isn't in the mood.
I lick my paws clean, just because.
Hazel and Maz are yawning,
and Salta is growling, all pretty teeth.
Number Three kid looks like me.
I guess I have to go take care of this.
The snake is hugging him.
C.A. MacConnell
11/10/2019
True Love is a Marathon.
If you read a lot of memoirs, it quickly becomes clear that we all share one thing: humanity. No matter how famous or how hidden a person may be, we all have trauma. We all struggle to find hope. We all have family issues. We all have moments that seem to affect us for years...and for some...their entire lives.
I once read a famous sports figure's memoir, and I wrote him a letter. He responded, and we corresponded for some time; he really helped me to delve into and deal with some stigma issues that were concerning me in those years. This man had nearly died three times. He was so close to death, it was a damn miracle that he was alive, writing me. He was kind, strong, and to the point. He was a guiding light.
I once befriended a man who had been sent to death row and was later exonerated. For many years, we wrote letters and shared poetry. His experience was certainly far more devastating than mine, but I too had known what it was like to be trapped...I had been locked up in hospitals many times. I still struggle to this day with that fear of being trapped, but he helped me muscle through the worst of it.
I've written rock stars, and I've talked with many of them, listening to their stories, and I dated one. He could be sweet and smooth, and he could be a raging scary machine, just like anyone could be. I always wondered when his fury would be directed at me. A punch or something. It never happened, but it was always in the back of my mind. He was also extremely sensual, but he seemed highly insecure, and he was extremely dishonest. I loved him deeply, and he really broke me. I was weak, anxious, and neurotic. I lost myself in him. There was nothing fairy tale about it. We were two mismatched people, just like any two mismatched people, trying to cope with our lives and pasts, and the fame had nothing to do with it. As much as I was deeply hurt, I still miss him, and I hate to say it, but when I think about him, I still feel...well...not good enough.
It is what it is. Some things leave us with a pang of hurt that may never completely leave. People sometimes ask me who it was. Some drill me. I usually answer, Who cares?
I just read a public icon's memoir, and I really related, so I wrote him. I don't consider anyone's public persona or name as a reason not to reach out. So if the moment calls for it, I do.
So this morning, I'm thinking about all of these stories, connections, and intertwined lives. I'm thinking about the ways that I reacted and attempted to live on, for better or for worse. I'm thinking about how the outer images we portray have nothing to do with the way that we can connect on an intimate level.
Love takes time.
Love is a process.
And I believe in true love to this day, but I define it in a different way. Sometimes it means taking a walk and realizing that both of you are coming from completely different directions. Sometimes I have to walk away. Sometimes it means letting go. Sometimes it means connecting on the Internet, and for some, getting married and having kids. Sometimes it means taking many walks and realizing that your journey together has been truly amazing, and no one on the outside could possibly feel the great weight of this connection. It is yours, only yours.
Love -- between friends, coworkers, partners, and family -- is complicated and multi-faceted, and when we touch, it merely scratches the surface. Love takes true grit, tears, and commitment. And to me, true love is a marathon.
Let it unfold. Today may be the day you leave someone behind, or today may be the day someone clutches your heart forever; it is strange and beautiful, and it isn't for the faint of heart. And remember, above all, no matter where we come from and where we're going with who we love, you and I are hilarious.
C.A. MacConnell
I once read a famous sports figure's memoir, and I wrote him a letter. He responded, and we corresponded for some time; he really helped me to delve into and deal with some stigma issues that were concerning me in those years. This man had nearly died three times. He was so close to death, it was a damn miracle that he was alive, writing me. He was kind, strong, and to the point. He was a guiding light.
I once befriended a man who had been sent to death row and was later exonerated. For many years, we wrote letters and shared poetry. His experience was certainly far more devastating than mine, but I too had known what it was like to be trapped...I had been locked up in hospitals many times. I still struggle to this day with that fear of being trapped, but he helped me muscle through the worst of it.
I've written rock stars, and I've talked with many of them, listening to their stories, and I dated one. He could be sweet and smooth, and he could be a raging scary machine, just like anyone could be. I always wondered when his fury would be directed at me. A punch or something. It never happened, but it was always in the back of my mind. He was also extremely sensual, but he seemed highly insecure, and he was extremely dishonest. I loved him deeply, and he really broke me. I was weak, anxious, and neurotic. I lost myself in him. There was nothing fairy tale about it. We were two mismatched people, just like any two mismatched people, trying to cope with our lives and pasts, and the fame had nothing to do with it. As much as I was deeply hurt, I still miss him, and I hate to say it, but when I think about him, I still feel...well...not good enough.
It is what it is. Some things leave us with a pang of hurt that may never completely leave. People sometimes ask me who it was. Some drill me. I usually answer, Who cares?
I just read a public icon's memoir, and I really related, so I wrote him. I don't consider anyone's public persona or name as a reason not to reach out. So if the moment calls for it, I do.
So this morning, I'm thinking about all of these stories, connections, and intertwined lives. I'm thinking about the ways that I reacted and attempted to live on, for better or for worse. I'm thinking about how the outer images we portray have nothing to do with the way that we can connect on an intimate level.
Love takes time.
Love is a process.
And I believe in true love to this day, but I define it in a different way. Sometimes it means taking a walk and realizing that both of you are coming from completely different directions. Sometimes I have to walk away. Sometimes it means letting go. Sometimes it means connecting on the Internet, and for some, getting married and having kids. Sometimes it means taking many walks and realizing that your journey together has been truly amazing, and no one on the outside could possibly feel the great weight of this connection. It is yours, only yours.
Love -- between friends, coworkers, partners, and family -- is complicated and multi-faceted, and when we touch, it merely scratches the surface. Love takes true grit, tears, and commitment. And to me, true love is a marathon.
Let it unfold. Today may be the day you leave someone behind, or today may be the day someone clutches your heart forever; it is strange and beautiful, and it isn't for the faint of heart. And remember, above all, no matter where we come from and where we're going with who we love, you and I are hilarious.
C.A. MacConnell
11/05/2019
11/03/2019
What's in There.
With his fingers, one lonely man
made a perfect, nude, stone sculpture.
A single woman penned a lofty book,
one about a shy, misunderstood
monster, a recluse who was half
machine. How could we ever
forget. Others wrote elusive songs,
poems, naked stories, and yes,
bibles and speeches. Soliloquies.
Still today, each moment, the world
falls in love with Marilyn Monroe.
How we all want to somehow
describe what's in there. We wake,
and we feel the ache, the relentless
pull in the center of the blood.
And here I am, going at it again,
trying to express what lies inside
my deep, my heart, but like the rest,
I'll never quite reach. I'm sure you
already know.
C.A. MacConnell
made a perfect, nude, stone sculpture.
A single woman penned a lofty book,
one about a shy, misunderstood
monster, a recluse who was half
machine. How could we ever
forget. Others wrote elusive songs,
poems, naked stories, and yes,
bibles and speeches. Soliloquies.
Still today, each moment, the world
falls in love with Marilyn Monroe.
How we all want to somehow
describe what's in there. We wake,
and we feel the ache, the relentless
pull in the center of the blood.
And here I am, going at it again,
trying to express what lies inside
my deep, my heart, but like the rest,
I'll never quite reach. I'm sure you
already know.
C.A. MacConnell
11/02/2019
Blanket
Outside, the shy,
cold front
settles down
on our sky.
Inside, the air
turns thin
and mean.
We crawl under
covers,
tossing,
and God knows
we'll never stop
moving.
Your slight
hand
graces my collar
bone.
C.A. MacConnell
cold front
settles down
on our sky.
Inside, the air
turns thin
and mean.
We crawl under
covers,
tossing,
and God knows
we'll never stop
moving.
Your slight
hand
graces my collar
bone.
C.A. MacConnell