Upon Re-reading Several Old Posts, A Disclaimer

It's almost funny to read some of those old posts. Mostly weird, occasionally distressing, sometimes funny. I guess what's throwing me off about all of it is that because I try to keep people's names and certain identifiable details out of my blog (because there are millions of 50 year old sex offenders on the internet and they're all going to find me if I'm not careful...) I ended up saying a lot of things as if they were hard and fast truths or my defining opinions on things, which is weird since none of them are. Like instead of saying, "My friends Suzy only eats chocolate ice cream and it creates awkward moments at dinner," I'd say something like "Some people get stuck in strange habits and you never know how to deal with it," and those two sentences mean totally different things. So I suppose my point is, take all these posts with a grain of salt, the more-so the older they are, because all of them are actually reflecting really specific times and emotions and situations, but because I left out a lot of particulars for the sake of my and my friends's anonymity, they all seem to come off (at least now and to me) as really proselytizing.

It's Only Been A Hundred Years Since I Updated This...

So it's probably time that I post something, I suppose.

This is a super-rough rough draft of a sestina writing exercise I put myself through yesterday. No edits or revisions have been made yet, but it feels good just to be producing again, so here's something:

[untitled]

At the beginning of September

there is nothing to rake,

the leaves still fat on the trees, the moon

a new nickel, a bright hole of rust

on the automobile of night. The dirt

is dry, and brown like the skin of children

in the sun, playing as children

are wont to play, before the schoolbells of September

call, replacing the dirt

on their fingers with pencils. Older siblings rake

the yard five dollars at a time, the rust

from tool handles leaving blisters like moons

on the knuckles of thumb and forefinger. The moon

washes the town, tucks the children

into bed, dances on the rust

of garden sheds like every September--

its gaze rakes

the streets and hills, eyes clouded with dirt.

The car exhaust is the color of dirt,

like smoke rising from older sisters beneath the moon,

sharing their nicotine with the rakes

in the shed. A sister is afraid of children,

the one inside her growing with September,

expanding like a spot of rust.

The town feels the rust

in its joints, watches its paint flake into dirt:

it is spectatoring another September,

criticizing the moon-

light on its own barns, the way the children

play at recess, how they rake

the sandboxes. Another teacher is raked

over the coal, called a blight, a "rust

spot on the school." She calls the children

inside, wiping dirt

from their faces, bright as moons.

She feels the weight of September,

its rake carving the garden dirt.

Weathered as rust, the midday moon

follows the children, not yet weary with September.