Tragic Salmon
January 10, 2010
The End Of Self Sabatoge — Haiku
January 11, 2010

Tenuous. A word that had been standing at the door waiting to cross the threshold; I never thought to say it out loud.

Tenuous. A wobbly table, hot black coffee almost spilled on white paper, open and ready with its own set of expectations. Sighing in relief at the near miss.

Tenuous. One’s ability to connect with perfect strangers or even close friends; not as easily as the thrumming bass drum bouncing haphazardly off the walls. Pulsing, sensory, perhaps even violating.

Tenuous. The position of my head on my body, feeling the rest of the room expanding behind me and yet remaining static, not turning around to meet the questioning eyes of strangers.

Tenuous. A restroom without a locking door. Just a little sign that reads “knock before entering”. So dangerously ambiguous, leaving too wide a margin for error. What if someone walks in accidentally and sees me?!

Tenuous. Writing on square notebook, on circular table, feet crossed in a secure pose underneath, grounded on the floor. I am contemplating this exposure — did I stumble upon it or create it knowingly?

Tenuous. Contracting and expanding, opening and closing, these hearts without locking doors, wondering if someone will walk in accidentally and see us.