Stack It Up Like Cinnamon

You were pretty like a leopard or a fox and probably just as sharp though you walked with that dead-leg swish like one was longer than the other and I doubted your ability to chase even if you wanted to, keeping it sullen like your name had old-world ties to shoemakers and carts.

We are all just lovers, and all I wanted was to talk but knew better so instead I just watched as your strange limbs carried you down one side of that long, busy street on what must’ve been a weeknight—I’m never quite on the beat, standing still or leaping ahead.

The restaurant host with the dirty blonde hair almost to his shoulders put me up at a table for two and my bags kept slipping off mine, bumping chairs and tables and arms in the narrow space where I tried to belong but knew better.

Upstairs, he said, but you may have to move back down once it gets busy. That’s what I got for being alone and I wanted to blame you but knew better as the false candlelits flickered those faces, giving the impression of flames where there were only batteries.

Why didn’t I hear from you? Surely, you knew better.


16 thoughts on “Stack It Up Like Cinnamon

  1. anie says:

    that is a delicate, sad story. Soberly, one could see insight as a reconciling, soothing atmosphere. Emotionally, however not, because we know that our assessments are always subjective and reflect our own attitude. Decisions are made, the doubt always remains as long as we stay in our own prison. Surely no one knows it.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Yes, it is delicate and sad, especially now that I reread it. I’m not always sure about these things when I first create them. I agree with you about the virtues and downfalls of insight; there is a constant tension there, and, hopefully, if we can achieve something like awareness, an appreciation for this tension that permits a certain liberation from self imprisonment. Thank you so much for commenting.

      Liked by 1 person

      • anie says:

        ohh, it is wonderfully poetic and I love it very much! It’s like a poetic report that was written to conclusively evaluate a fact. And that is exactly what I find so surprising, sad but also amazing. Because the report looks for pictures in a very fantastic, artistic way, although the facts are examined clearly and analytically. But how can I form a judgment, if only I see my point of view and this is also beset by emotions ….. fatal and therefore sad … if also beautiful in poetry!

        Liked by 1 person

      • Yes! A poetic report, looking for pictures to examine—I’ve never thought of it this way! You’ve let me see what I do—not just this particular poem—in a new and different light. Thank you… it makes me wish we could have a conversation instead of just exchanging comments…

        Liked by 1 person

      • anie says:

        ohh we can have a conversation by email, or whatever, if you want. I find it very exciting to try to understand what the poems are about, why they touch me (I had no access to poetry before … except that I memorized them quite quickly when I was child …;) … ) and what baffles me.

        It is usually very introverted, withdrawn people who write sad poetry. They observe well and analyze in the way it has taught them the experience. And then comes the artistic side, the soulful side and processes this into pictures that describe them in words. When the head and the belly are in disagreement, there is torment that is expressed through art. The thoughts drive me on to the question of whether this artist has to suffer to make his art well? Through art, his suffering has meaning, but he can not get rid of suffering through art. He only has a chance to get rid of it when he leaves his prison…this is what I think….

        Liked by 1 person

      • That sounds delightful. The ideas you’ve shared resonate with me very directly, especially the question of the necessity and meaning of suffering, and I’m always interested in discussing more. My email should be in my bio; if not, it’s on my personal page No pressure at all, though. Comments are just fine too.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: stack it up like cinnamon – M.

  3. You have created a new genre. It’s not poetry. It’s not prose. It’s like a snapshot of truth and perfect wordage. I have to think of a definition. You’re so talented it’s absurd, you and the beautiful girl and mark who write here, you’re some of my absolute favorite writers and that’s no small feat as I live in words but you have IT

    Liked by 1 person

    • I cannot thank you enough for saying this. I happened to read this comment while at work today and it filled me with gratitude and hopefulness, two things of which my work life is generally devoid. As far as this genre of mine, I would love to hear anything you come up with to call it. I write stories and I’m working (very slowly) on pieces of a novel, but this form I’ve arrived at comes more naturally than anything else I’ve ever “tried.” I just don’t know where it fits in the publishing world. Thank you for taking the time to express your appreciation for what I do, and for putting me in such good company with Mark and the beautiful one.


      • The best thing about a new genre is it will reveal itself. When I read the work on HA and this is true for a long time now, I see us as being a bunch of outsiders who have something different to say. Mark and Christine they really have a brand or universe of their own in terms of their style and you do too as does MBB because you are all so real and unpretentious and that is sort of rare in our field. It is that which attracts me to your work you SAY it without pretense you just say it, and MBB does that too and so does Mark. Tony too. The genre will reveal itself. The key is not to let anything stop you. I know a soul destroying job can often shut us down, but whatever you do, keep doing this because it’s not only going to sustain you, it’s going to take you somewhere you won’t go if you shut down. All of us here have shut down at one point or another, our faith in each other helps us when the going gets bleak. You can do this. Be renewed in your faith in yourself because by fuck you’ve earned it. You have that magical IT and now you all you need to do is keep doing it and not let anyone or anything stop you from your goal of getting your work out there and appreciated. It will be.

        Liked by 1 person

      • The outsider-ness is, I’m sure unsurprisingly, one of the main reasons I joined HA. It felt like a good place for, and good company, a group of talented, marginal artists making things because those are the things they make, not because they’re trying to fit anywhere. For my part, I have a strong desire to create something unique, something even just a tiny bit different from anything else out there in the world. I suppose that’s not especially uncommon. Raw is the way, I think; that simple little word, said to me some years ago by someone who was very dear to me, has been my guidepost, generally subconscious. When it’s not at least a little bit raw, it feels flat, even forced. And that is the very last thing I want; it’s not what creating is about.

        If (when) I slip into doubts, all I need is to come back to something like this comment to snap back to actuality. Thank you for that, thank you very much.


      • It’s not uncommon true, but despite so many wishing to be unique, more are the same now than they ever were. I think it’s because there are so many of us, I think the media and technology make uniqueness really hard to attain so if you do, then you may share others wishes but few succeed and you would be unique in being one who did. I often think how much easier it was even fifty years ago when there simply were not the numbers or competition out there. I know what you mean about forced and flat – I usually quit writing for a while if I go through one of those phases. But I come back eventually. So we like it uncooked, horrah for us.

        Liked by 1 person

      • True indeed. Sameness is ubiquitous, even sought. And often in an unconsciously ironic manner, as when in the pursuit of individuality. I often think about this in historical terms as well, sometimes wishfully, as though it might have been easier at certain points in the past to live as a free artist. But that isn’t a fruitful line of thinking, so I try to let it go. What I have trouble letting go is writing, even when it’s not going well. I have so little time for it that I can sometimes push and struggle too long before realizing it’s time to read or walk or go to a museum or take photos or just lay down quietly for a while. Uncooked, yes, always.


      • The worst thing is making time to write when you have so many commitments pulling you in different directions. I hope you find a way to keep making time because it is So worth it. This world tries to disuade us. Many give up. You never must.

        Liked by 1 person

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