Hard times, Chickadees, hard & beautiful times. This is what they mean by winter: the streets a wreck of sliding cars & snow piles, the sky at night either white with the approaching onslaught or incredibly clear. Shivering, I eat my little bowl of spaghetti, hunker down & try to use the time wisely. Because I love Noelle Kocot, below is a poem of hers that appeared originally in Pilot magazine. I admire how thoughtfully plain & precise the language is. Perhaps that what catches me about much of Kocot's work. Anyway, here you go. Stay warm, sleep well.
S y n c h r o n i c i t y B o o k
The paranormal doesn't agree with me.
The normal, you, sending me signs of love
And freedom, does.
Lies and arrogance make me ill.
Sweetness, you were truth,
Even if at the end you were caught in the lie of a needle.
Who understands? Because I am seeking understanding,
Even if I know I shouldn't.
Philosophy. Metaphysics. Fuck.
Just be with me, like you are,
And that will be enough,
As it was when you walked and ate and slept
Beside me, no plan on either of our parts,
No understanding from anyone else necessary
To create what will outlive us.
Help me to look outward, on the driving wind.
And please don't stop your messages;
I read something like happiness for me in them.