William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘Identity’

I Do This

Between what I can do and what I can’t, Is a lifetime of what I did and what I didn’t, when I could. Now I do this, without wondering if I should, if it’s bad, or if it’s good. I do this, tho’ the doing’s hardly doing, and the done is never done. I do this, ’cause the doer’s here to do it, Tho’ ’times it seems he’s gone. . […]

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Pity and Desire

The star was a bright one. But when I got there, All I found was an old man warming his hands by a fire. It took my whole life, he said, and all of my breath, to prove I wasn’t a liar. Ever since then, I’ve felt pity for God, and questioned my own desire. . [ 1538 ]

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The Mask

Warm, cloudy, humid. Fires east, fires south. And here I am, recognizing once again the sheer luxury it is to be able, for so long, to pursue my tiny line of thinking — to read my books, to write my notes and poems and then pretend them to the world — for pretending and publishing are much alike — tho’ the mask I wear is nearly identical to what it’s […]

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Cultivation and Preservation

Dark, rich, thick, smooth — a not-quite-full six-ounce cup of pour-over coffee. Dream coffee, slowly consumed. Coffee in the bright light shadow of a setting full moon. The fir tree has a very heavy new crop of green pitch-glistening cones, which, as they mature, are shedding bits of themselves. When I was working under it the pieces fell around me and on me. The garden is engulfed in purslane, which […]

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Isn’t Is

Hot days and warm nights. But it’s all relative. We used to call these temperatures cool in the San Joaquin Valley. Still, one hundred is one hundred, and seventy is seventy — just as my name is what’s stated on my birth certificate, and on all of my other “important papers,” the electronic ones included. In other words, it is, and it isn’t. Or, to frame it as a question: […]

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A Dewy Understanding

A slow run, the last sliver of moon just rising, the streets quiet and calm. With the arrival of the summer heat, our former high temperatures are now the lows, even as the days, little by little, grow shorter, and the cloudless, starry nights, as if by their own magic, add unto themselves. The grass in front of the house has yielded again to clover. The bare feet rejoice in […]

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