I am talking about that one time

Because we all had that time, when we were fifteen, sixteen maybe, when Bob Dylan was our man.
He still is, but you know what I mean.

In the interest of being more honest here

Emotional upheavals and things, probably due to not getting my periods. More like emotional downheavals. I have been thinking about L.S. a lot. Not sad things. Not even things, just stuff that happened back then. But today more about V and things I know about him that no one else knows. People should always go for walks to get to know  each other better. All I worry about is my heart getting smaller. I need to not let it for my mother and friends I have grown to care about. Fucking hell. Never tell anybody anything. But it always happens. And as for me like Stephen Dunn, "I’ve had it with all stingy-hearted sons of bitches. A heart is to be spent. As for me, I’ll share my mulcher with anyone who needs to mulch. " Except the stingy hearted son of a bitch tends to be me, most of the time. But those days are over, ladies. And it happened without me knowing.  At least I can still look at poetry books I can't afford yet. Probably never, the way things are going. At least I can look forward to finding them in libraries.  I have thought some terrible things that I can't write about.  Things that mess people up start early when they haven't even got their guard up. 

Love is a Deep and a Dark and a Lonely

Carl Sandburg

love is a deep and a dark and a lonely

and you take it deep take it dark

and take it with a lonely winding

and when the winding gets too lonely

then may come the windflowers

and the breath of wind over many flowers

winding its way out of many lonely flowers

waiting in rainleaf whispers

waiting in dry stalks of noon

wanting in a music of windbreaths

so you can take love as it comes keening

as it comes with a voice and a face

and you make a talk of it

talking to yourself a talk worth keeping

and you put it away for a keen keeping

and you find it to be a hoarding

and you give it away and yet it stays hoarded

like a book read over and over again

like one book being a long row of books

like leaves of windflowers bending low

and bending to be never broken

I have to do tax. "Be a legal superhero in the business world". God.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Sixty, by Stephen Dunn

Because in my family the heart goes first

and hardly anybody makes it out of his fifties,

I think I’ll stay up late with a few bandits

of my choice and resist good advice.

I’ll invent a secret scroll lost by Egyptians

and reveal its contents: the directions

to your house, recipes for forgiveness.

History says that my ventricles are stone alleys,

my heart itself a city with a terrorist

holed up in the mayor’s office.

I’m in the mood to punctuate

only with that maker of promises, the colon:

next, next, next, it says, God bless it.

As Garcia Lorca may have written: some people

forget to live as if a great arsenic lobster

could fall on their heads at any moment.

My sixtieth birthday is tomorrow.

Come, play poker with me,

I want to be taken to the cleaners.

I’ve had it with all stingy-hearted sons of bitches.

A heart is to be spent. As for me, I’ll share

my mulcher with anyone who needs to mulch.

It’s time to give up search for the invisible.

On the best of days there’s little more

than the faintest intimations. The millenium,

my dear, is sure to disappoint us.

I think I’ll keep on describing things

to ensure that they really happened.