I am a completely different person than I was in August through December. It has only been three months, and now I feel strong as hell. That's a long way to journey in a short time.
It was a lot of hard work, and then I woke the hell up.
Now, I feel as if I haven't quite caught up with myself yet. Of course, there are some things that haven't changed. I have some bad habits, and I'm rather stubborn, but I'm all right with it, and I still LOVE movies, hawks, driving with the music cranked, graveyards, walks of 4-5 miles, and pretty much every animal, except I'm a little wary of possums, raccoons, and coyotes, but wolves are indeed majestic. I love the mountains, Virginia, the Outer Banks, the Nevada desert, and the thought of moving as soon as I am able. In my daydreams, I see a long driveway, and a white fence. I see a gate. Whenever I stop to "meditate," (I like to call it daydreaming) this vision pops up. Not sure if it's mine, or if I'm visiting, but it's there.
And I see the love of my life.
No matter how much I may grow or change, I'll never let go of these dreams. When I was little, I used to see similar visions. Back then, it was horses -- hundreds of them, and at ten, I was riding, and later, I became a horse trainer. Then I started dreaming of Virginia, and I have no idea why, because one day, it just appeared in my mind. And I ended up going to school in those mountains. I lived there for around six years.
I believe in these visions. I always have, and far beyond doctors, scientists, and the practical things (although they are important too!), many times, my dreams and visions have kept me alive.
It's beyond romance or childish wishing. Rather, it's magic or divine, if you will. You see, I believe that God, as we say, is inside us.
Trust yourself. Stay the course. You deserve good things. And no matter whether a person is accepting an award or shoveling shit, we are all human. What difference is the geography? And no matter how many are around, in the end, I am alone, and there is a sole purpose.
People choose sides, but it's not about the external events. These happenings are mere distractions. What it's really about is this: how I face the fear and the noise. Just plug away. Something's coming.
All this week, I've read people's thoughts about how they can't believe someone would make fun of an illness. It has been happening to me for 24 years. It has happened to others for centuries. But through my words, through my emails, talks, posts, and direct speech, I've fought my own fight.
There is a time to do just that.
And now I'm ready for the white fence, the long driveway, peace, quiet, and the love of my life.
C.A. MacConnell
3/31/2022
The Turnaround
At first, this one doesn't seem so complex, but this is one of my favorites, b/c of the use of "harsh-sounding reality checking" words mixed with fantasy. :) And it stops and starts, then rolls forward. It gives a feel of frustration, longing, and also, it speaks to the attempt to protect the self from pain. Then letting go. Just a peek inside my little brain. Not just the word meanings, but also, the feel/sound of the words is intentional. Songs use this tactic quite often. :)
The Turnaround
When winter’s first snow tongue
licked the highway white,
I wasn’t careful.
Instead, I sped up,
checking the time.
Next came Damien Rice.
Around eight, I took the funny,
wrong exit. Out there,
the phone didn’t blink.
No strange service could reach,
and I wondered if some god
was grinning. Maybe,
if I took enough detours,
this slippery trip would never be over.
Maybe I could find you
on the curious way back,
and we could wear our stupid hats.
From the thin roadside,
maybe I could see you
walking toward me --
bundled in black,
holding two hot drinks,
raising them up,
sipping the side
of one cup’s stubborn drip,
soon waving me down
at the turnaround.
C.A. MacConnell
When winter’s first snow tongue
licked the highway white,
I wasn’t careful.
Instead, I sped up,
checking the time.
Next came Damien Rice.
Around eight, I took the funny,
wrong exit. Out there,
the phone didn’t blink.
No strange service could reach,
and I wondered if some god
was grinning. Maybe,
if I took enough detours,
this slippery trip would never be over.
Maybe I could find you
on the curious way back,
and we could wear our stupid hats.
From the thin roadside,
maybe I could see you
walking toward me --
bundled in black,
holding two hot drinks,
raising them up,
sipping the side
of one cup’s stubborn drip,
soon waving me down
at the turnaround.
C.A. MacConnell
3/30/2022
3/29/2022
No Name and the Neighbor
Famous net photos seem inviting. In the lull, in the slight burn
of the space heater, in the silence of a half-empty, rented room,
No Name misses no one. Morning, Mom reminds him to swallow
one tablespoon of apple cider vinegar. Yes, before him, random,
filtered snapshots. Trapped in a lofty, 46-year-old frame, thumb
and pointer fingers greasy from canola oil, how he wants to erase
twenty years, crash-study psychology, and listen to win. Surely,
guitar leaked into his genes at three. No, a drumkit, and a crowd,
and various pretties. Yes, there was the cooking era, but the head
of his spatula came loose. Next came drag racing, but he always
choked on the turn. All his life, he’s longed to be king. Followers,
the…one…great…award. No Name could never take care of Julia.
Black toolbox, loaded garage and all, he hammered. The takeout
dinners were never normal. Yes, he tried to last through the night.
Tied himself to the bed once, but in sleep, the knots came loose.
All around, many are fat, but he’s…bingo…at his summer weight.
Off and on, he lost his sanity this year. Off and on, eating crushed
ice, he gained it back. No, there is no animal. Julia got the pit bull.
But somewhere, hungry bears fish, slapping cool water, dealing
with near-misses. Yes, inmates wear whatever blues. For cellies,
many days are inside out. If they’re lucky, the hot plate burns red,
and they score Ramen at the canteen. Downtown, rat-faced Dougie,
the born-again ink slave, swears he’ll cover up No Name’s bad tats
for less than spaghetti. If he becomes a clean-skinned millionaire,
will he end up like Mom – closet-crouched down with one ill-fitting
shoe? Famous net photos. Yeah, inviting. A balloon-lipped, skin-
and-bones, local girl. All his life, No Name has longed for fans,
a willing crowd at the supermarket. As the pandemic’s filthy hand
lingers – nose to mouth – whether or not he wears his American
flag gaiter, maybe tonight, he’ll find the bony girl’s close address,
unpack his rotating crackers, wash his hands thoroughly, rise up,
and kill the neighbor.
C.A. MacConnell
of the space heater, in the silence of a half-empty, rented room,
No Name misses no one. Morning, Mom reminds him to swallow
one tablespoon of apple cider vinegar. Yes, before him, random,
filtered snapshots. Trapped in a lofty, 46-year-old frame, thumb
and pointer fingers greasy from canola oil, how he wants to erase
twenty years, crash-study psychology, and listen to win. Surely,
guitar leaked into his genes at three. No, a drumkit, and a crowd,
and various pretties. Yes, there was the cooking era, but the head
of his spatula came loose. Next came drag racing, but he always
choked on the turn. All his life, he’s longed to be king. Followers,
the…one…great…award. No Name could never take care of Julia.
Black toolbox, loaded garage and all, he hammered. The takeout
dinners were never normal. Yes, he tried to last through the night.
Tied himself to the bed once, but in sleep, the knots came loose.
All around, many are fat, but he’s…bingo…at his summer weight.
Off and on, he lost his sanity this year. Off and on, eating crushed
ice, he gained it back. No, there is no animal. Julia got the pit bull.
But somewhere, hungry bears fish, slapping cool water, dealing
with near-misses. Yes, inmates wear whatever blues. For cellies,
many days are inside out. If they’re lucky, the hot plate burns red,
and they score Ramen at the canteen. Downtown, rat-faced Dougie,
the born-again ink slave, swears he’ll cover up No Name’s bad tats
for less than spaghetti. If he becomes a clean-skinned millionaire,
will he end up like Mom – closet-crouched down with one ill-fitting
shoe? Famous net photos. Yeah, inviting. A balloon-lipped, skin-
and-bones, local girl. All his life, No Name has longed for fans,
a willing crowd at the supermarket. As the pandemic’s filthy hand
lingers – nose to mouth – whether or not he wears his American
flag gaiter, maybe tonight, he’ll find the bony girl’s close address,
unpack his rotating crackers, wash his hands thoroughly, rise up,
and kill the neighbor.
C.A. MacConnell
3/27/2022
3/26/2022
The Kind
Last night, an old man forced me to smile,
as if my face were no more than a furious,
sticky envelope, a Venus fly trap. Think
of the closing view – the dark, the blackout,
the feel of tongue over teeth. Some scissor-
jaws become ivory. Me, you, the carnivore,
the lucky green -- all are hiding and hiding
and seeking. Somewhere, a thick elephant
herd, an extended family, carries on. Now
afraid, they dance together, turning up dust.
Wrinkles vice-grip those eyes. Black. Creases.
The kind, huge hearts. A wise mother lifts
her trunk, telling baby, Careful, remember,
this season, the mean flies, the hollow, fast sticks
come out.
C.A. MacConnell
as if my face were no more than a furious,
sticky envelope, a Venus fly trap. Think
of the closing view – the dark, the blackout,
the feel of tongue over teeth. Some scissor-
jaws become ivory. Me, you, the carnivore,
the lucky green -- all are hiding and hiding
and seeking. Somewhere, a thick elephant
herd, an extended family, carries on. Now
afraid, they dance together, turning up dust.
Wrinkles vice-grip those eyes. Black. Creases.
The kind, huge hearts. A wise mother lifts
her trunk, telling baby, Careful, remember,
this season, the mean flies, the hollow, fast sticks
come out.
C.A. MacConnell
3/25/2022
3/24/2022
Choosing to Evolve
Just wrote this little piece on FB. Here ya go:
Choosing to Evolve
But I've noticed I'm becoming more comfortable with the uncomfortable things. So yesterday may have sucked, but at the end, I thought this: "Oh well, no big deal, tomorrow will change." And then I thought this: "Holy shit, it's amazing that I'm seeing it that way now." Ha, rather like stepping outside of yourself for a second. Really, it's a miracle, this change in me.
I used to think setbacks would snowball into Armageddon every time. And sometimes, sure, maybe they did, I guess, but regardless, I have no control. Never know ... good or bad ... it comes and goes. Highs and lows, and of course, we all have the shit show from time to time, yeah.
But any one event, or whatever happens that affects my life...these strange (and sometimes seemingly random) occurrences are rather unimportant. What's important is where I go from there...my next thought, choice, action.
It's about evolving, if I choose to do so.
Indeed, I can make the choice to go backwards. And sometimes, it can feel more comfortable to retreat, because it's what I know.
But more and more these days, I'm risking the forward movement. Because, what if all our trials and headaches and wrongs and rights and messes are for one purpose? One. What if it's as simple as this -- something, someone, out there, or something inside us all ... wants us to be happy.
So go ahead, believe, because if you're always in a state of believing, there is no fear.
C.A. MacConnell
The Director
Today, you could save the
world
through shadowy scenes,
or you could visit
the real
girl,
or you could rest your head down
and finally drift
off.
C.A. MacConnell
world
through shadowy scenes,
or you could visit
the real
girl,
or you could rest your head down
and finally drift
off.
C.A. MacConnell
3/22/2022
Photos: Private Planes.
Just some of my plane shots. Hope you like them...I think they're kinda playful and yet, kinda eerie at the same time. :) Like me.
Hope you have a good day. I've been resting. Yesterday, I drifted off all day to the ID channel. I really wish Jaws or Rocky would've been on! I love those. I really love The Judge and Drive and Baby Driver and Into the Wild. The Judge and Into the Wild are the only movies that made me baby-weep. But I only watched them once.
Some movies I've watched over and over: Rocky, Jaws, Reality Bites, Singles, Almost Famous, Breakfast Club, Can't Buy Me Love, The Little Things, Waking the Dead. (During the pandemic, I saw The Little Things three times in the theater, and my dad and I are still texting about it. Long, involved texts and hypotheses. The movie is awesome. One of the best crime films I've ever seen -- in terms of acting, story, all the rest, and it even paid homage to the greats in the process. The texts with Dad are hilarious. They usually start out like this: "Yeah, but what about this..." or, "Remember the scene when Sparma..." My favorite thriller: no lie, hands down, Panic Room. Any movie that can terrify you basically using only one room is a winner in my book. Writing and film is at its best when the focus is detailed and small, I believe...that movie always reminds me of that in my own writing...to stay in the moment, stay small. I've learned a great deal from it. <3
Just some musings. I love all kinds of movies, but my tendencies veer toward the "stereotypical male" films, for some reason. I like crime, adventure, mob stuff, thrillers that are terrifying using little gore, and I love a creative, gut-wrenching family drama. And a good car/motorcycle chase! Not a real fan of romance, but I do enjoy them if the dialogue is witty or if the pairing is on fire, as was the case in Waking the Dead. A hidden little gem.
Some movies I've watched over and over: Rocky, Jaws, Reality Bites, Singles, Almost Famous, Breakfast Club, Can't Buy Me Love, The Little Things, Waking the Dead. (During the pandemic, I saw The Little Things three times in the theater, and my dad and I are still texting about it. Long, involved texts and hypotheses. The movie is awesome. One of the best crime films I've ever seen -- in terms of acting, story, all the rest, and it even paid homage to the greats in the process. The texts with Dad are hilarious. They usually start out like this: "Yeah, but what about this..." or, "Remember the scene when Sparma..." My favorite thriller: no lie, hands down, Panic Room. Any movie that can terrify you basically using only one room is a winner in my book. Writing and film is at its best when the focus is detailed and small, I believe...that movie always reminds me of that in my own writing...to stay in the moment, stay small. I've learned a great deal from it. <3
Just some musings. I love all kinds of movies, but my tendencies veer toward the "stereotypical male" films, for some reason. I like crime, adventure, mob stuff, thrillers that are terrifying using little gore, and I love a creative, gut-wrenching family drama. And a good car/motorcycle chase! Not a real fan of romance, but I do enjoy them if the dialogue is witty or if the pairing is on fire, as was the case in Waking the Dead. A hidden little gem.
Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
C.A. MacConnell
3/21/2022
3/20/2022
Photos: Skate Park
Used the second for the cover for THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, which is my favorite. Ha. Get yours here.
You'll never forget the ride.
C.A. MacConnell
C.A. MacConnell
3/19/2022
3/18/2022
3/17/2022
Story of You
In silence, in mystery, in between music notes, buried within
crafted, poetic lines, resting inside the space, the air filling
the collective movement of a tragic or comic dance, smashed
underneath the colors of a gifted paintbrush, life takes a turn,
becoming divine. Some say, rather delusional. All around,
scattered humans interrupt the quiet, making hell-noise,
wishing on sharp or smooth tongues, making gaping holes
with open lips -- sweaty, dripping, steamy ones and twos,
kneeling down or cursing, shouting or rejoicing within each
personal scene, whether magnificent or miniscule, harrowing
or revered, and then, suddenly, waking to the damp, cardboard
box. But no matter the time of day or scene of place, no matter
if the dogs stop fighting, or if the tree is obese, emaciated,
twisted, or hollow, eventually, any bullied child breaks free,
and no matter how flawless or wrecked a talker's skin seems,
the instantaneous, painfully awaited flash, the careful angle,
the shot, the strange oils blending, turning into legendary
faces, the perfectly executed succession of movement,
the instant when a voice halts, changing tone, the space
hidden inside these mathematic, infantile, godly lines,
the gap between canines and leaves, and the discreet story
of you and me, lives forever.
C.A. MacConnell
crafted, poetic lines, resting inside the space, the air filling
the collective movement of a tragic or comic dance, smashed
underneath the colors of a gifted paintbrush, life takes a turn,
becoming divine. Some say, rather delusional. All around,
scattered humans interrupt the quiet, making hell-noise,
wishing on sharp or smooth tongues, making gaping holes
with open lips -- sweaty, dripping, steamy ones and twos,
kneeling down or cursing, shouting or rejoicing within each
personal scene, whether magnificent or miniscule, harrowing
or revered, and then, suddenly, waking to the damp, cardboard
box. But no matter the time of day or scene of place, no matter
if the dogs stop fighting, or if the tree is obese, emaciated,
twisted, or hollow, eventually, any bullied child breaks free,
and no matter how flawless or wrecked a talker's skin seems,
the instantaneous, painfully awaited flash, the careful angle,
the shot, the strange oils blending, turning into legendary
faces, the perfectly executed succession of movement,
the instant when a voice halts, changing tone, the space
hidden inside these mathematic, infantile, godly lines,
the gap between canines and leaves, and the discreet story
of you and me, lives forever.
C.A. MacConnell
3/16/2022
3/15/2022
Spoon
On your side, behind me,
there you were --
temperate --
and serenely
sleeping.
There I was, in front of you,
on my side --
wintry,
twitchy,
pale as bone,
suddenly silver, static,
sober,
and awake ... soon
feeling
your elbow,
feeling your
pulse,
feeling your slight
feeling your slight weight.
C.A. MacConnell
there you were --
temperate --
and serenely
sleeping.
There I was, in front of you,
on my side --
wintry,
twitchy,
pale as bone,
suddenly silver, static,
sober,
and awake ... soon
feeling
your elbow,
feeling your
pulse,
feeling your slight
feeling your slight weight.
C.A. MacConnell
Just playing around with a little disruption in rhythm. It's kinda cool...comes across as both sweet and jarring. Always messing around, ha. <3 C.A.
3/14/2022
Photos: Love, Jukebox, Little Miami
Love.
Jukebox
Little Miami
Some shots from around town. I like to take each one as its own little piece of art, in terms of the mood. <3 No real consistency on edits, ha. I actually don't use photoshop at all...some tint/contrast/enhance manipulation, that's all, but very little. And I take one shot and go, as if it's film. The Jukebox one was actually on film. Taken at The Comet, a rad bar in town. Hope you have a beautiful day. Just up drinking some coffee.
Yesterday, at the park, I saw a little girl stumbling around. Holding her dad's hand, she was beaming, learning to walk, wearing blue socks, no shoes, testing the pavement. She toppled once and started giggling. It warmed my heart.
C.A. MacConnell
3/13/2022
Spanish Moss
No gutter man.
The day we met,
swimming straight
out of the bayou,
you shone. Light
only came through
the sun and iris.
Back then, you wore
the perfect shade --
a faded, hand-me-down
sweater, a shy cut,
an original number,
surely home-threaded,
hand-woven by spiders
using only the finest
Spanish moss.
No gutter man.
C.A. MacConnell
The day we met,
swimming straight
out of the bayou,
you shone. Light
only came through
the sun and iris.
Back then, you wore
the perfect shade --
a faded, hand-me-down
sweater, a shy cut,
an original number,
surely home-threaded,
hand-woven by spiders
using only the finest
Spanish moss.
No gutter man.
C.A. MacConnell
3/11/2022
3/10/2022
Snapshot, Just So
Sharply,
he is dressed
in eggshell,
with a touch
of borrowed
baby blue,
platinum,
and diamonds,
with serious,
slicked-back
hair. Not one
flyaway there.
At first, severe,
he stands
between
two women --
one sick,
one well --
worried
about the gel.
Later, alone,
at the circular
hotel, he leans
back against
the antique
headboard
and smiles
sideways.
C.A. MacConnell
3/09/2022
3/08/2022
My favorite.
All the time, people ask me this: "What is your favorite book that you've written?" Well, I'll tell you.
Griffin Farm was the debut, so that was awesome, and it took a long time to harness the form, because there are a lot of dynamics with family dramas...people coming and going, weaving in and out, that kind of thing. And it tugged on my heart; I can't say that I maintained an "artist distance" throughout the process, and I think this shows in its intensity.
And holy shit, speaking of people weaving in and out, The Anchor wins in that category. People are crawling around everywhere in that sucker. By far, the Anchor was the most fun to write, and there were a ton of voices and witty dialogue, which I loved, but the numerous minor characters made editing challenging! Very complicated, and it took an immense amount of research, but also, it's incredibly detailed and visual. Real life, living in 90s Seattle, and events there definitely inspired the work.
Strange Skin was challenging as well, since it was a YA, so it was a new style for me, and I had to work hard to tone down the fucks and leave the drugs out and such, ha, but the nature of this genre forced me to make the story more compact, which was a great learning experience. I definitely fell in love with my character Casper, which is interesting, because I seriously have never met anyone like him. His character grew out of an article I read about street hustlers a long time ago.
So that's the short answer. With each project, I become enmeshed, and they're all a part of me now, but once I finish one, I never read it again, unless I'm doing an event or whatnot.
And what comes next? Book Five, and as far as the style and subject matter, it will remain a secret until it's absolutely finished.
Until then, the others are here, paperback and eBook.
Griffin Farm was the debut, so that was awesome, and it took a long time to harness the form, because there are a lot of dynamics with family dramas...people coming and going, weaving in and out, that kind of thing. And it tugged on my heart; I can't say that I maintained an "artist distance" throughout the process, and I think this shows in its intensity.
And holy shit, speaking of people weaving in and out, The Anchor wins in that category. People are crawling around everywhere in that sucker. By far, the Anchor was the most fun to write, and there were a ton of voices and witty dialogue, which I loved, but the numerous minor characters made editing challenging! Very complicated, and it took an immense amount of research, but also, it's incredibly detailed and visual. Real life, living in 90s Seattle, and events there definitely inspired the work.
Strange Skin was challenging as well, since it was a YA, so it was a new style for me, and I had to work hard to tone down the fucks and leave the drugs out and such, ha, but the nature of this genre forced me to make the story more compact, which was a great learning experience. I definitely fell in love with my character Casper, which is interesting, because I seriously have never met anyone like him. His character grew out of an article I read about street hustlers a long time ago.
And The Hole was a whole other animal; it was painful to write that sucker, but strangely, I felt incredibly free at the same time, because I allowed myself to get as dark and dirty as I wanted, and I became completely lost in it, so much so that it felt like I became the characters when I did the voices. This one also took a lot of research -- interviews, letters, reading, podcasts, and then some. I learned a hell of a lot.
So that's the short answer. With each project, I become enmeshed, and they're all a part of me now, but once I finish one, I never read it again, unless I'm doing an event or whatnot.
And what comes next? Book Five, and as far as the style and subject matter, it will remain a secret until it's absolutely finished.
Until then, the others are here, paperback and eBook.
TYVM,
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. You're my favorite, always.
Sideburn
It is thick, thick,
then narrow,
then thicker.
A full-grown,
deep-angled,
tricky, wild,
steep stairwell
leading down
from floor two,
your ear,
stepping
all the way
to your jawline,
the landing.
Flatly, no,
shockingly,
it ends.
But in the white
space between
your hair
and cheek,
my finger becomes
the imaginary
razor, testing
the shaved line,
lingering
on the edge,
feeling the way
your smooth, hot,
strange skin
so easily leads
back into the hall,
back into the rough.
then narrow,
then thicker.
A full-grown,
deep-angled,
tricky, wild,
steep stairwell
leading down
from floor two,
your ear,
stepping
all the way
to your jawline,
the landing.
Flatly, no,
shockingly,
it ends.
But in the white
space between
your hair
and cheek,
my finger becomes
the imaginary
razor, testing
the shaved line,
lingering
on the edge,
feeling the way
your smooth, hot,
strange skin
so easily leads
back into the hall,
back into the rough.
C.A. MacConnell
3/07/2022
Roadside.
The Jaguar is broken
down,
and in the traffic's face,
I am making
wolf eyes,
feeling the speed of machine
cheetahs,
because no honest beast slows down,
and the hot air burns any cheek,
like sun-beat bars on a steel cage,
and the closest
rest stop
is five hundred tracks away,
and I wonder
where you are killing
lunch.
C.A. MacConnell
down,
and in the traffic's face,
I am making
wolf eyes,
feeling the speed of machine
cheetahs,
because no honest beast slows down,
and the hot air burns any cheek,
like sun-beat bars on a steel cage,
and the closest
rest stop
is five hundred tracks away,
and I wonder
where you are killing
lunch.
C.A. MacConnell
3/06/2022
3/05/2022
Reception: Apartment 52
Evening.
The Dad says
she should lower her expenses,
but she didn't know
about the Siberian Unicorn
until this night;
she’s finally getting
reception.
How she wants to be
25,000 years ago.
What a beast.
But she can’t see it
now.
She only sees
rabbit ears.
C.A. MacConnell
The Dad says
she should lower her expenses,
but she didn't know
about the Siberian Unicorn
until this night;
she’s finally getting
reception.
How she wants to be
25,000 years ago.
What a beast.
But she can’t see it
now.
She only sees
rabbit ears.
C.A. MacConnell
3/04/2022
3/03/2022
Photo: Electric.
Took this over by Lunken Airport. I like to watch the planes roll in. I like to imagine who's coming. <3, C.A. MacConnell
Raw.
Actually, I wrote the original version of this one back in college, Junior year, when I was living in an apartment with three other girls. That would have been the 1994-5 school year, whoa. I used to play my guitar on the steps outside of that apartment, and I started writing my first songs then. Singers are fun.
Raw
The mint. Sure, I was a cowboy
Killer. The den light
Burned pink,
Like raw skin,
Like a room tongue.
I kissed you once, twice, maybe lucky three
Times, telling you to leave
Before the roommates woke up and
Found us
Passed out on the couch again.
Humming, whistling.
That night, the storm
Was wild. Surely, somewhere, horses dashed
Across slippery fields.
Surely, somewhere, wind slid through the
Cracks
Of a screaming barn.
C.A. MacConnell
3/02/2022
3/01/2022
Shavings
Hand me a bandage. Earlier, I cut myself.
We are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.
Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.
I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.
The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic
chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.
We are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.
Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.
I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.
The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic
chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.
C.A. MacConnell