Ginger, and friend.

She had mentioned, in our talking,
a drink, a whiskey ginger, that she
had had, at a place, I don't remember
where, and I thought, well, and I invited
her, after procuring the things, the most
choicest of organic ginger, (what? bulbs?),
and organic ginger ale, and, of course,
Evan, Green, and anyway, I did the inviting,
and the invitation was accepted, and she
came, and the tools I had were all wrong
for extracting the juices from the ginger,
(root, the root), and then I put in too much
ginger ale, way too much, even though
we had said we both hated that sort of
heavy handedness, and I was flustered,
but I played it off, because I was so glad for
the company, and we sat in the grass,
under the christmas lights I had strung
along the clothes line, and we talked,
and the gentle wind off the river,
and the baby cherries on the cherry tree,
and a Chesire moon,
and a pretty girl
is my new friend.

By the by.

Thank you, for the giving,
that you gave to us.
Thank you, for the living,
that we have done.
Thank you, for the happiness,
that you made for us.

Thank you, for all the funny things,
you have done.

Oh, yeah: you have been a good friend.
You know, there ain't too many good friends around.

And if I ever caused you pain,
if I ever caused you trouble,
well,
it don't matter now.

Holding on.

G:

Life, I feel more certainly,
as the years flutter by,
is hilarious.

Right? Can't I say that?
Haven't I earned, at least,
those stripes?

Painting, again, even in tiny strokes,
has already improved my outlook,
as it tends to do,
even as the prospects of friendship
have turned my head, ironically,
to mush.

It seems as though outside hands,
from places both secured and surprising,
work in strange concert,
to hold my pink heart aloft.

Sometimes gratitude,
is all I know.
How could that be wrong?
Right?
Please,
keep with the holding.
I, for one, am holding on.

Always,
me.

P.S. I know you think it feeds my ego,
but tell me, for a hot minute,
that I am super-good, at something.

April Eleventh.

My mom's birthday.
I love you with
all my heart,
mom.

Continuer.

Life is sometimes,
my favorite thing.

Little bit.

I had forgotten, in our laughing,
I had meant to tell you,
in the same instant
that I touched your arm,
to remind me that you are real,
that this week was the best week,
and thank you, but instead,
I held onto your arm,
laughing.

So now, in my remembering,
thank you.

Sometimes more often.

There are the times,
sometimes more often,
than maybe I might say,
pretending to be asleep,
alone in the house, yet,
pretending to be asleep,
and, you know, the eye,
oblivious to the sometimes
torment, of the heart,
the eye flutters open, and,
with the fluttering open,
reminding all the parts,
well, of course, the heart, part,
mostly, but really, all,
all of the body parts,
reminding them all, in some,
what would you say,using my
words, in fragile mockery,
that I would say, say,:
in some softly horrible moment,
something I'd say, it is,
all dramatic like I do,
I don't know, I mean I do,
always thinking like that,
silly, over-sensitive, but,
but back to the eye,
opening, opening,
reminding everything,
and nobody,
but me, that,
yes,the world,
is still here.