When the moon holds the sky like a spoon
I often find myself reading, watching, listening, and absorbing—what I’ll call my inputs. The moments in between are for outputs: creating, writing, cooking, farming, playing hide and seek with my identity, and saying thanks.
Inputs
Recently reading: On a Sunbeam by Tillie Walden, Wonderland by Matthew Dickman, and The Wall by Marlen Haushofer
On Mama Bears, A national group of parents of LGBTQ kids who are helping other parents move away from homophobic and transphobic beliefs to better support their children
Writing Out of Time (article)
Two Poems: Minimum Wage by Matthew Dickman and Everything is Dying, Nothing is Dead by Saeed Jones
A wonderful zine: Depression Cooking (thank you dear pal who sent this to me :)
Outputs
Duplex II When the crescent moon holds the sky with a spoon all the shapes stumble. All the shapes stumble when we sleep like animals known only by tracks and traces. The animals known only by tracks and traces know you didn’t choose to pierce this world. You’re here. You’re here probing the sounds of gardens in the rain, binging the mind’s appetite, spying the pigeons dressed in purple. The pigeon dressed with purple wings curls ribbon on a present lodged in flower petals. In the center of the flower are all the things you didn't know you love. I didn’t know I loved snow—frosty and sharp—even when peed on by babies and puppies strolling at dusk. Babies and puppies stir at dusk when the crescent moon holds the sky with a spoon. The crescent moon holds the sky with a spoon cupping you and everything else. -CN
Fangs
Belly up with bloody bums,
bloated and stiff and calm.
That’s how I find them each morning.
I grab the birds by the ankles with gloved hands,
chuck them over the pig fence and remember
to never tell any customers. Most people find
the circle of life confusing. And confusion
often hinders business. But how euphoric—
mama pig with a mouth full of meat and
two chicken feet hanging out like fangs.
-CN
Life isn't easy on a farm. Hold me tight moon!