a church poem

today i'm grateful for

today i'm grateful for rooftop sunset dance parties hosted by the alliance francaise booking a flight to LA on a whim martinis on tuesdays with friends only buying used clothes calling my grandmother and even when she doesn't want to talk because she's eating i'm grateful for getting nine hours of sleep and sometimes even when it's just four i'm grateful to be able-bodied and for how every day is like a little life where we're born and at night die a little death how you can pin all of your hopes on a tomorrow that never seems to come and for taking it one day at a time because i haven't seemed to find another way to do it

a friend told me

a friend told me  that my long-term scheme to  present as waspy as someone who went to  cotillion and maybe stood to inherit — worked (they had assumed) maybe I’m a better Actor -  than I thought my father has always been proud of the fact that his family had the first color tv in their neighborhood i’m happy to report that we  also had a  color tv  though we certainly weren’t  the first  regardless my mom’s family was a bit fancier - or it at least felt that way in terms of what they didn’t  talk about maybe they practiced more of  society’s rules or at least were aware of a  society with  unwritten rules it’s easier to see how things  play out towards the end when we all eventually go back where we started i swore that when i wrote this it would be funny and not about death or money or any of those other weighty topics an older friend messaged to say how long do i really have left to live shouldn’t i just live a little first they’re my funniest or at least  kindest friend who seem to have a handle on what we’re all doing here maybe we only laugh at what we’re afraid of and only care about what matters the most

a church poem

a church poem someone said to me recently that they’ve looked at the evidence and it’s fifty-fifty there’s a fifty percent chance  that there is a God a Creator and this was all  on purpose but there’s an equal fifty percent chance that this existence is random a random collision of particles a cosmic accident and they said the difference — between the two is faith i’m not so sure  life is a gray area overlapping circles spreading out in a never-ending mandala — few stark binaries actually exist if there is a God how could we pretend to understand how they think why do we have to anthropomorphize something not human why can’t the aimless molecules that arrange to make a beautiful sunset — be directed by something we’ll never understand

i have (at least) two

i have (at least) two Chrome profiles on my work computer one with my name - that’s blue - and the other called The Real Clay Vickers which is a pinkish kind of peach each time i open a new tab on The Real Clay Vickers i’m presented with a set of rows of  boxes that represent weeks of  how long it’s estimated  i’ll live  it might be that part of the reason i keep that around is how strongly and  differently people react when they see it  there are usually questions like  how does it know (i entered my birth date) and how does it estimate (science?) and how do i feel about how many boxes are filled in i see it often enough i don’t necessarily  deeply consider it every time  the pixels flash across my eyes  i might be slightly further along than  one third of the original estimate and  it’s not taking into account poor health decisions i’ve made like  not sleeping enough last night or  skipping all the equinox classes for the  past two weeks my soul friend’s grandmother  colored in her last square this week about forty years past  what her Chrome profile memento mori  would have estimated  between the wars  right after spending one last Easter with her family  i’m writing this during her wake upstate the night before the funeral scheduled for about the same time as a fancy charity party where i’ll raise a  glass to Alfreda  and make plans for all the empty boxes we’re lucky enough to have left to  fill

my first mistake

my first mistake was when i assumed i knew  everything i needed to know about sex money politics  drugs rock and roll  (not so much rock and roll) so i spent my teens refusing to ask questions  that embarrassed me  and it eventually became too  late in my 20s i  explored all the previously vigorously  defended  taboos  assuming that’s where the answers were hiding  but was bemused (alternately - and shocked) to not find much there there the things i thought i didn’t know which had loomed large  in my imagination were hiding behind the curtain — a prototypical midwestern  wizard and now in my 30s i can only  begin to question  how do i know what i thought  i didn’t know and what would  “knowing” really mean  there are verifiable  living and lived  wise peoples  like maya angelou or anne lamott and zora neale hurston and  but you can count them  on the fingers and toes and  not with  percents  so i’ll worry less about what i thought i  knew about what i  didn’t know and  focus on  focus with my breath and  my sleep and  how each night is  le petit mort  and every morning is  a new birth  every day a complete  whole and experience life  now without letting worry about  yesterday and  tomorrow  waste  today