21 Replies to “share three details”

  1. oh details………
    one.welts on arms from wrestling and pinning down in long grass and cleavers.
    two.electric blue wine bottle..label peeled off…with three purple lupine stems twisting from the opening.
    three.cow skull…front teeth missing…stack of rocks on forehead and the four of feathers perching precariously next to eye socket.

  2. 1. press full palm
    against warm back
    electric hello
    a dirty/dry martini and
    campari and soda please.

    2. termite tracing tree climb
    tree house and sticky limbs
    abandoned window view
    stunning children pull
    pulley food basket naked
    pj and j

    3. a heartbreak dambreak relief
    a phone call too much
    intense sweaty details
    remember this: I will not see you.

  3. 1.
    a big enough swath of blue
    to sew a sailor’s breeches means good weather
    in the hours ahead
    i will stitch the streets on steel rims
    black jeans gone gray
    new saddle
    copper rivets.

  4. winter. minneapolis. midcoast – not neccesarily in that order.

    first. its the snap of winter. sounding out in tiny pinches of snow that pluck at my hands as i fumble to lift a key.

    then. its the spreading of heat under my layers that reminds me how important my own bodies heat is.

    lastly. its home. its only 6 years but a lifetime. its a stranger now. its the thing i know the best.

  5. three details: three parts
    of your face, twitching, my love —
    lips shivering as quickly as a vole’s heartbeat
    the freckles we joke about (like cinnamon on a latte in gentrified portland)
    the freckles i kiss are playing hide and seek
    with your dimples, (deep enough for my puckered lips) arrhythmically.
    and your eyes.
    they roll back in your head.
    i see only the white.
    your entire brain is moving your body,
    without consent.
    my hand is in your hair and i
    wish i had a hold of that snake i often brush deep within you,
    that pleasure originated these movements
    and not malady.

  6. One:
    Long fingers,
    swords, tender or otherwise
    willow switches woven
    and waterlogged maps

    can point, can brilliantly orbit
    can make meaning
    can be circle truth.

    (I love life in growing orbits)

    Details can monkey around
    and get you kicked out of the garden.
    Details can be the work horse of the day
    plodding through possibility
    while plotting escape.

    Safety pins aren’t safe.
    pin pricks and spray-painted cocks
    and making the world
    for small dicks.

    While spit boys
    do a number on
    the patriarchy’s dinner.

    While being fed
    by meaning found on
    the pattern of cave walls;
    both deep
    and those
    you barely can get a hand

  7. 1. rituals for acceptance, a dreamspace of mind-uniting. a future hunted down in the now, somehow.

    2. gala sitting close again, whispering “yeah, yeah that’s hard…” these hearthollows chambercaves that listen only every so

    3. the mysterious captivity of bees

  8. 1- gift kite made of paper blowing with the air vent— a bird drawn on (metaphor come true and softly)

    2- full belly. Chirpings of children who hold the pencil when I tell them and draw like they can walk through the finished piece into a new life. (A circus, a sea lion with a ball, colored blue gray —- stars)

    3- Laughing into day/night, the way seeing yourself in your loved ones makes you feel awake, like you’ve just woken up from a very predictable dream.

  9. 1. Two nicely shaped calves, torn beneath the skin. The chiropractor says, “Muscles tear. It happens,” as she scrapes a ceramic tool across them, back and forth, heavily against the bone. Beads of sweat form, a blue gown squirms, a throat is not afraid to scream.

    2. A 33 year old heart murmurs something indecipherable about the future. I check my planner again. It could be a number of things.

    3. My right hand generously lifts a creaky piece of metal for my left, which reaches in without expectation, pulls out a postcard. Eyes narrow, zoom to the signature. A smile rips my face open, walks past the ecstatic wiggling of the dog, falls back against a quilted bed and broadens. Curl-spasms of toes inside shoes. The tiny print read once for the thrill, twice for the meaning. How long can a smile survive without the company of other smiles? The third time is for survival.

  10. 1. street festival on the one grey day of summer
    smiling brown band playing flutes and hand drums
    knees bending together
    kids and one crazy old black man dancing
    people clap in rhythm
    hands in your pockets
    low profile, you sway side to side

    2. hands on the smalls of each other’s backs
    pat pat, you lean in for a picture, smile, pull apart
    hands still on each other
    fingers drumming to qualify the touch

    3. sitting in the curved window on the street
    feeling like a museum exhibit
    you bring me a bowl of pickle spears
    pale watery green seeds stuck to silver curves
    I order apple pie and coffee
    you have neither
    settle for twirling tomato slices in vinaigrette
    merlot in a sturdy glass
    while one blue balloon
    loosed, floats up
    just like it knows it should.

  11. (someone taught me to not follow rules)

    1. joking with the waitress
    behind the 1950’s cruise in counter
    next to the slow moving connecticut river
    about that milkshake machine
    that’s been the milkshake machine
    since I worked here
    fifteen years ago
    as she makes a chocolate milkshake
    for my grandma

    2. of what has mostly been unsaid
    the harassment
    my sister has received
    from my aunt
    demanding I wear
    a dress in her wedding ceremony
    incredulous that we would never acquiesce
    to forced gender conformity
    a day

    3. promises of foxfawn cuddles
    woodstove warmth
    and you burrowing into my neck
    to find that warm chocklit-smell
    of which you muse

    4. the sweet eyes of amelia
    trusting there is something familiar about me
    as I clasp her hand
    accompanying her dementia
    during her mini naps
    and each time upon her waking
    cooing “hi grandma” into her bright eyes
    as she pulls out the old charm
    calling me “her beautiful boy”
    again and again

    5. that particular symphony
    of the nursing home dining hall
    mumbled non sequiturs
    piled on top of each other
    humming and clicking and moaning
    in unharmonious keys
    enthusiastic monologues
    to the open air

    6. my sister
    asking me to be anything
    but my full self
    in her wedding

    7. there is a sense of
    of longing
    for my drawing table
    the solace and hermitage
    the projects lined up before me
    the questions of heart and hunger
    knowing so intimately
    the ground beneath me

  12. 1.
    Scratched in red paint.
    Layers of beige, green and black.
    Trato de marcar el número. En mi telefono americano. No funciona.
    Señas del construcción:
    un paquete de Maruchan Ramen
    Are scattered beneath an acrylic sign. Sans serif: HOTEL LONDRES
    Squirming on leaves of kale. The lone kale amidst tomato vines.
    I removed leaves rife with larvae and placed them in paper bag filled with scrap wood. Does wood approximate kale?

  13. I compiled these today, inspired by your latest post:

    I haven’t seen anything
    I haven’t heard anything
    I haven’t done anything
    Except, I’m listening

    Ever since the detail collector entered my life I’ve become aware. There is a way of freedom in her daily entries I never had; that I want to have, that I need to cultivate. Freedom. Cultivate. Freedom. Cultivate. Freedom.


    enter the dragon
    letting the light blood
    trickle, warm
    farm house
    chickens hay bale
    breathing alcohol



    market fruit

    sitting together with no one at the bus stop
    she’s mending a stocking
    favourite sibling
    drums beating, offing
    whisper dish
    fennel seed
    foretold random words
    pressing against his jugular

    the doctor
    the river
    canned goods
    body hurts



    cracks in the table
    fables the
    eminent the
    wings the
    glass, light reflects
    sun on your skin
    bullets in
    remember the


    angels making nests
    little bright eyes
    furry fluffers
    pecking seeds
    the rest is
    up to you


    not thinking linearly
    this is sideways
    the rain
    the birds need food
    rest is music
    the rest is okay

  14. carla!
    thank you for sharing these!
    several moments i love: the unexpectedness of “pleasure” coming after “doctor”. ending a piece with ‘the rest is up to you’ (it opens the end up to possibility). and words pressing against jugular. hearing that the detail collector has brought you more awareness is one of the best things anyone could ever say to me about this blog. so thank you for opening yourself to awareness. may it bring freedom to your words.

    1. Thank you! I had a lot of coffee and was listening to music, putting down words as I listened. Not very focused, but definitely freeing! I’m too closed up as a writer sometimes, and your posts bring something out in me; I love it! Thanks again for the inspiration. I somehow imagine you riding your bike around in the middle of the night. Cool! I, too, saw the girl scouts at Albertsons yesterday.

  15. carla! how i love that you saw the girl scouts too! and really, it means so much to me/my writing that my daily practice can help free you in yours.
    wanted to stop in and say hi this week but it was a busy one. perhaps next week!
    keep em coming.

  16. A cat whisker on the black carpet
    Sand from our walk this morning along the Willamette to the confluence and you didn’t bite the other dog
    I am not alone

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