Sometimes being in the public eye means being treated like a public toilet.
Context is everything; lack thereof, nothing.
If you find it is difficult to float, you are not floating—you are flailing.
Others speaking on your behalf is not the same as your speaking for yourself.
If you start in resignation, you will end in resentment.
Professionalism means never having to say “I love you.”
This book I’m reading is dumb, but I’m happy I have the right to read it.
I keep thinking in terms of “or” when I should be thinking in terms of “and.”
It’s always best to take a strong position while at the same time undermining that position.
When all else fails, the printed poem makes good wrapping paper.
You might as well wear a sandwich sign that reads, “I like boring poems.”
Sometimes all we have is the meat in our hands.
As usual, my day resolves to a series of biconditional statements.
Writing poetry broke me of many strange old habits, although it instilled in me one strange new habit: writing poetry.
“Is” is not the same as “is and only is.”
Gender blind is rarely gender neutral.
Poems don’t hurt people. People hurt poems.
Half of what we accomplish is what we manage to not screw up.
We are all polycephalous.
We should all be less concerned with intentions and more concerned with behaviors and the effects of those behaviors.
We have everything to say to one another, but all we talk about is the weather.
Once you have entered into language, you have entered into bias.
What we need to identify in any text is what goes unsaid: What is the underlying assumption or presumption; what are we being sold, and why.
We forget what we love. We love what we forget.
As I grow older, it’s not my own appearance that I’m less concerned about, but that of my books.
I enjoy books with small print and large concepts.
If things get fouled up, I have nobody to blame but me
If things go well, I don’t have to share the credit with anyone.
I waste no time other than the time I choose to waste.
I rarely have a disagreement with myself that can’t be mended relatively quickly.
never make myself feel self-conscious or weird.
My values, beliefs and general worldview are always relatively consistent with myself.
I work hard when I am alone—at learning to write and learning to love, the two things that matter most to me.
I know when I am full of shit and am not afraid to tell myself so.
Some of the best conversations play out inside my head. I need to be alone to hear them.
If I want to suspend disbelief, I usually indulge myself.
We should always spend time with those we love, and one of the people I love most is myself.
In some ways, I remain a mystery, one I alone seem interested in unraveling.
The human sidewalk hotdog is really excited today, jumping up and down so much his loosely attached fabric smile is flopping about on his meat face. His eyes remain hollow and unconvincing. The two stripes of mustard down his belly also unconvincing. Sometimes the human sidewalk hotdog puts one or both of his arms inside his outfit and the outfit begins to undulate. This can go on for prolonged periods. This of course leads one to wonder what he’s doing in there, if he’s making adjustments to his own hot dog, and if anyone else has to wear that getup after him.
If I had four arms and two brains, I would get a lot more done.
Lilting is not something that comes naturally to me.
Today the human sidewalk hotdog is spazzing out. Kicking, screaming, flailing about doing something sort of like jumping jacks, although he is rather constrained by his hotdog outfit. The human sidewalk hotdog is so hot he’s bound to melt the mustard right off his meaty self. He’s an amazing sight to behold. Oh, he’s lying down on the ground! He’s back up! He’s down again! I think he’s trying to breakdance!
The human sidewalk hotdog is boring today. His suit isn’t on all the way and I think it’s inside out. He’s not even moving or holding his sign. I know it is hot out, but that is no excuse for the human sidewalk hotdog to stand still, halfway out of his meat-bun casing. Dance, hotdog, dance! Oh, my mistake. That is just a regular human sidewalk person with his clothes half on and half off. My bad. Sorry hotdog.
What I want everyone to know: Any negative reaction you may have upon meeting me is entirely temporary and will not likely cause any long-term adverse effects. If you do have long-term adverse effects you feel are associated with me, please see your primary care physician. Be sure to mention your exposure to me, duration and frequency of exposure, and cumulative dosage. So far, there have only been five or so documented cases of irreparable damage. There is as of yet no cure. Palliative care is indicated.
I don’t remember a time in my life when I could look at an El Camero and not immediately think of my father.
I have the hands of a 77-year-old man. That is to say, I have my father’s hands—the ones I imagine he would have if he were still alive. It’s like they started aging at a rapid pace the day he died so I would always carry part of him with me.
If you write as if you are a writer, you’re self-conscious. If you write as if you aren’t one, you’re disingenuous.
These trees are missing their arms.
And that was the moment the thought-ghost spirited away all my good ideas.
I want what I want, and I will hold my breath until I get it.
It’s been raining so long I can’t see the rain. When I look out my window, I only see dull sky, sometimes hope of sun.
Truth be told, I don’t like the rain right now. It’s messing with my dreams—has brought my mother back from the dead three nights straight. She’s like her old self, only kind and apologetic. The two things I wanted from her when she was alive.
When my father died, it rained and rained and rained, five days in a row without letting up, or at least that’s how I remember it. It was atypical weather for Oklahoma, not at all like the water rationing that forced my father to put in a well so he could water the lawn or wash his car whenever he damn near pleased, not just for a fixed amount of time on alternate days.
My mother couldn’t stop crying in the days following the funeral. She wailed to him in her bedroom, on her knees. She begged him to tell her why he’d left her. And she moaned about the rain. She didn’t want rain falling on his grave. I think she imagined the new soil being washed away, imagined him unable to settle into the earth. I’m not sure exactly what she imagined.
Doesn’t all the rain bother you, she asked me.
No, I answered.
He was dead. How could I be bothered by the weather?
For years, I blamed my mother for the nightmare I had a week or so after my father died. I was at the cemetery. It was raining, deep mud everywhere. My father rose from the mud that covered his plot and began walking toward me. He had no skin. There was nothing holding his bones together, so they wobbled back and forth with every step. Almost like dancing.
There has been good rain, too. My first all-out thunderstorm in Kansas City, rain carried by wind nearly parallel to the ground, drenching my giggling friends and me and sending our inside-out umbrellas to the air. Jon and I, soaked, running through an Iowa cornfield after having sex. Swimming in the rain before I knew it wasn’t safe to swim in the rain.
At least six more months of rain here in Seattle. And days as short as a memory or a dream.
Will all this rain bother me?
Dana Henry Martin 