a more solid joy

We could do this always

I suggest,

kiss your wrist with abandon.

You sway my hand, grasped tight.

Breath a short gasp,

Tone on tip-toes,

recalculating, balance exact,

no sudden motions:

You're happy?

Yes.

Shameless grins,

Incredulous.

My answer floats above us

one of those giant soap bubbles

we blew on the beach at sunset.

We watch it undulate; transfixed.

A week or so

later, you'll go,

across oceans, even,

and pursue a more solid joy.

One which does not waver,

A joy which you can master.

One not prone

to burst, to shatter.

school's in session...

Teaching writing, man. Today I'm looking at 138 persuasive essays introducing my students and their personal character. I've graded exactly 12. Grading is, of course, a nightmare, but I enjoy it. It's a masochistic, stubborn sort of a thing. I try not to write in red pen, or write novels of instruction on the side of the page, or write scarring terms like "AWK" or cross whole phrases out, even though sometimes I think those actions would serve the sense of the paper. Writing is so personal. It's so emotional. It's a very hard subject to teach, because even 7th graders know that writing is pulled from a source inside of a person, it's individual, and even if it flat out sucks (to employ the 7th grade vernacular) it still belongs to someone. Math problems don't belong to anyone. They belong to the universe, and by junior high most have figured out the universe can be an annoying and shittily unfair place. Math makes you angry (or ecstatic) at the grand Order of things. Writing makes you angry at yourself.

So grading is a delicate balance. It's also a crazy amount of work, for what sometimes feels like a ridiculously tiny pay-off.

But sometimes you come across a world in a sentence, and that's gold. It's a good thing I'm such a nerd about language...I mean I can't imagine most people enjoying the treasure hunt of one powerful sentence in a knee-high stack of general, meandering pulp.

I can never express what I love about student writing; it's usually sentences that were not intended to stand out. My favorite sentence so far is this one:

Since childhood, I have had the ability to create things. For example, a house complete with pool and lounge chair, and entire factory, and a fleet of 17th century sailing ships, all out of paper and tape. (All of these were miniature, of course).

Happy Saturday. Go create things.

cycle

I wonder when he told her

about Kodi,

his favorite German Shepherd.

While they studied? Or

driving to the church pot-luck?

They must have discussed pets; that's such

a good ice-breaker. I mean, I know

she wrote out a list of questions

before date #1. She's shown me

that paper; it's tattered,

the crease 30-years worn

but still crisp.

He used to tell me

with that wolf-grin of his:

I'd hurl that tennis ball

against the basement wall

thunk it

again, again, again.

and Kodi never caught on.

Headed straight for it

every time.

Whimpering when the cement siding

rose up

from seemingly nowhere.

I guess

it never got old

to watch that dog

trust.

I wonder, when she heard it

if it sounded off anything.

A warning,

echo-y, like that basement.

For me, it always echos

behind scribbled prescriptions,

the 50 minute sessions

the cracked plastic pill case

the stashes of day-old medication.

his looping question:

is there really nothing more

you can do?

September Psalm

Praise God for angled lines,

the punch-out mountains, black and white

cast in relief by the neighbor's light

resting on ebony, autumn sky.

Praise Him for fatigue

after long, full days of peace.

Alleluia for the re-paved street

for the acrid asphalt steam

just-poured, sticky sweet.

Selah,

Praise the Lord

for persistent metaphors.

The kind Reality cannot hold

though it twist our spinning worlds

right-side up to shake our souls.

Selah,

Sleep singing

praise for relentless believing.

Day-ending, day-beginning.

All the coming kingdom

glimmers,

safe from time's keeping.