endless numbered days
scent of old garlic rancid ditto old cabbage wafts up over mean streets
on this crisp morning -35 with wind about to begin the final pages of
Murray Stein’s tome on ch ch ch changes he looks nothing like Bowie
more a jewish Harry Truman his words re-shaping my relationship to
death a wizened jungian Murray encourages me to bury the corpses of
former personas before they bury me who they bury down in the hole
in the pinebox Nefertiti carved head matters
you don’t want to be clinging still to your ingenue now do you? Murray
with great enthusiasm encourages embracing liminality that hazy place
between 59 + 79 those 20 yrs. of life Catherin O Hara spoke so fervently
about last week pre-shortness of breath in her brown faux-fur robe her
comb still warm her lipstick waiting bed damp book open to page 666
Daniel Deronda a personal fave
my boudoir not much different silver hairs in comb nut debris in bed
sticky-salty stained sheets fuchsia Ugg slippers warm Frank Stanford’s
308 page 15,000 word poem waiting currently on 4,047th word this
morning i notice a slight leviathan levitation as i walk to my café trying
not to think about the bullseye on my back + btw who the fuck scooped
my parents? Murray? Murray? perhaps you’ve run out of answers
you wretched old jungian you
__
..the road is nearby even when you are at home and secured at the hearth..
(Murray Stein In Midlife 2014) ie., don’t get too cozy in that bed mother
actually intuited this refusing to sleep in her bed for over a decade when the
Reap came for pick up she hopped in spending 15 hrs. taking a final breath –
she showed him!)
Winter 2026 ..imbolc..the seeds are stirring..🌸🌸🌸
songanddancegirl 