I was in a car the other day, going from my grandparents' house to my mom's. And suddenly, I really started to notice the shapes of the trees. Weather-wise, there's no snow obscuring the branches and trunks, but it's still early enough that there aren't any leaves either. It's been rainy the last couple days, too, and the contrast between the wet, black bark and the grey of the sky blew me away. I noticed that so many of the single trees I saw (whether by nature or by human artifice) had branches that absolutely spiraled out from the trunks. I could look at the trees and see movement. You have no idea how much I A. wished I had a camera and B. wished I could capture on film what I was seeing.
So instead, I cobbled together a haiku and recited it silently until I could write it down.
Here it is. I know it's a paltry offering, considering what I was trying to express, but I worried that if I tried to make a longer poem, not only would I forget half the lines by the time I recorded them, but that the poem's impact might be diminished.
----
The tree: twisted, gnarled
Bent from seasons in the world.
Still, in spring it buds.
----
Argh. I wish I was a better....poet? Writer? Something, anyway.
~Later
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
24 March 2010
19 February 2010
At long last...
It's been ages since I've had a real update here, hasn't it? I humbly offer a rough draft of a poem, written tonight as I enjoyed a piece of pie.
----
Fork Country
My people don't hold much truck with spoons.
Spoons have their places, namely stirring coffee in the cup
assuming it's not consumed black.
This is fork country:
For all that the places are set with spoons,
They go back, unused, to the silverware drawer at the end of the meal.
Meat and potatoes and bread and butter
Grace the plates across the table.
Green beans or swiss chard, stewed in the second-largest kettle
Served in a separate dish, for those who like it that way.
A butter knife and three-tined fork are all you'll ever need.
Save your fork for later:
Dessert is mincemeat pie from this year's deer,
God be thanked.
Square pie: done in a baking pan with two-inch-high sides
Still boiling hot and smelling great clear out the dooryard.
There's no call for serrated knives in this house:
All straight-edged blades, pick your choice
Razor sharp in the knife block
Just come back from sharpening in Uncle Phil's basement shop.
Grampy and Grammy and Momma and I each eat a slice,
Served on the thin blade of the cutting knife,
Placed on saucers by Grammy's own two hands.
The crust is the best crust anyone could make,
The filling's pretty darn good, not bad at all, considering
the apples and oranges and raisins were all free.
Grampy eats his with his favorite paring knife
Blade worn to a crescent curving out the bone handle.
He cuts the crust into bites and forks them up.
Grammy pinches stray crumbs with her fingers,
sliding them onto her fork and into her mouth.
Momma eyes the dish-- she'd like a sliver or a whole piece more.
And I think about spoons. I don't need one, but I want one.
But this is fork country,
And I'd be a fool to ask.
----
I know, I know. It's still pretty rough and needs trimming. Nonetheless, I'm fairly pleased with it so far. (Yes, the pie I ate tonight was indeed my grandmother's mincemeat. ^_^ The crust was store-bought, but it still tastes pretty good.)
I've been watching old episodes of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations lately, and it made me wonder: if he were to visit my state, what would we show him, as far as local cuisine goes? Frankly, I don't know of any restaurants that really cover the sort of food my family cooks and eats, and I consider us to be true locals. (I know, I'm being prejudiced about out-of-staters.) I mean, what does my state have? We have a lot of mediocre chain restaurants, a lot of fast food joints, and some half-assed attempts at "fine dining." There are lots of American Chinese restaurants (not to be confused with the Chinese food one would actually find in China.) Honestly? My two favorite restaurants are independently owned pancake houses.
Anyway, I must away!
~Later
----
Fork Country
My people don't hold much truck with spoons.
Spoons have their places, namely stirring coffee in the cup
assuming it's not consumed black.
This is fork country:
For all that the places are set with spoons,
They go back, unused, to the silverware drawer at the end of the meal.
Meat and potatoes and bread and butter
Grace the plates across the table.
Green beans or swiss chard, stewed in the second-largest kettle
Served in a separate dish, for those who like it that way.
A butter knife and three-tined fork are all you'll ever need.
Save your fork for later:
Dessert is mincemeat pie from this year's deer,
God be thanked.
Square pie: done in a baking pan with two-inch-high sides
Still boiling hot and smelling great clear out the dooryard.
There's no call for serrated knives in this house:
All straight-edged blades, pick your choice
Razor sharp in the knife block
Just come back from sharpening in Uncle Phil's basement shop.
Grampy and Grammy and Momma and I each eat a slice,
Served on the thin blade of the cutting knife,
Placed on saucers by Grammy's own two hands.
The crust is the best crust anyone could make,
The filling's pretty darn good, not bad at all, considering
the apples and oranges and raisins were all free.
Grampy eats his with his favorite paring knife
Blade worn to a crescent curving out the bone handle.
He cuts the crust into bites and forks them up.
Grammy pinches stray crumbs with her fingers,
sliding them onto her fork and into her mouth.
Momma eyes the dish-- she'd like a sliver or a whole piece more.
And I think about spoons. I don't need one, but I want one.
But this is fork country,
And I'd be a fool to ask.
----
I know, I know. It's still pretty rough and needs trimming. Nonetheless, I'm fairly pleased with it so far. (Yes, the pie I ate tonight was indeed my grandmother's mincemeat. ^_^ The crust was store-bought, but it still tastes pretty good.)
I've been watching old episodes of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations lately, and it made me wonder: if he were to visit my state, what would we show him, as far as local cuisine goes? Frankly, I don't know of any restaurants that really cover the sort of food my family cooks and eats, and I consider us to be true locals. (I know, I'm being prejudiced about out-of-staters.) I mean, what does my state have? We have a lot of mediocre chain restaurants, a lot of fast food joints, and some half-assed attempts at "fine dining." There are lots of American Chinese restaurants (not to be confused with the Chinese food one would actually find in China.) Honestly? My two favorite restaurants are independently owned pancake houses.
Anyway, I must away!
~Later
31 January 2010
A priest, a rabbi, and an atheist walk into a bar...
...but you already know that old chestnut.
Here's another old chestnut: I have not been posting lately. I am incredibly remiss and derelict in my self-proposed writing goals, and I feel pretty awful about it. I feel hopeless and helpless, which is never a good combination.
I've been grinding away at the same poem for almost a week now. Looking at it swamps me with misery, which is half the problem why it isn't done--I almost can't bear to look it over. The other half is, of course, that I am not yet satisfied. It's definitely missing something and I have no clue how to fix it. Today I separated it into stanzas (of a fashion) to see if I could spot the problem. Is it the order? Have I said too much? Not enough? I have a sinking feeling that I may have accidentally jammed two separate poems into one, and now they're having awkward hookup sex, and really both of them would rather be alone, but they're too polite to go their separate ways.
Entropy is going nowhere fast. I'm overwhelmed with the scope of what I hope to orchestrate in the next chapter. Knowing it's going to be something of a montage showing the development of the main characters' friendship does not help. It's still a lot to do.
I have been unable to work on any old original stuff or start any fresh. I think it's fair to say I don't have my heart in it right now, because every time I squeeze a sentence out it looks bad and I toss it in the garbage. A rookie mistake and all the more discouraging for that.
And yet, I keep trying, am driven to try.
~ciao
Here's another old chestnut: I have not been posting lately. I am incredibly remiss and derelict in my self-proposed writing goals, and I feel pretty awful about it. I feel hopeless and helpless, which is never a good combination.
I've been grinding away at the same poem for almost a week now. Looking at it swamps me with misery, which is half the problem why it isn't done--I almost can't bear to look it over. The other half is, of course, that I am not yet satisfied. It's definitely missing something and I have no clue how to fix it. Today I separated it into stanzas (of a fashion) to see if I could spot the problem. Is it the order? Have I said too much? Not enough? I have a sinking feeling that I may have accidentally jammed two separate poems into one, and now they're having awkward hookup sex, and really both of them would rather be alone, but they're too polite to go their separate ways.
Entropy is going nowhere fast. I'm overwhelmed with the scope of what I hope to orchestrate in the next chapter. Knowing it's going to be something of a montage showing the development of the main characters' friendship does not help. It's still a lot to do.
I have been unable to work on any old original stuff or start any fresh. I think it's fair to say I don't have my heart in it right now, because every time I squeeze a sentence out it looks bad and I toss it in the garbage. A rookie mistake and all the more discouraging for that.
And yet, I keep trying, am driven to try.
~ciao
04 January 2010
Pushing Boundaries with Naughtiness
Apologies for the non-writing over this week. I've been stricken ill by some terrible plague and have, honestly, been shivering in a recliner all day every day while watching movies and waiting to die.
To celebrate the possibility that I may be recovering, I give you porn. Gay porn. Well, okay. It's not particularly explicit: I've seen pg-13 movies with naughtier sex. But I'm hoping you, the reader, will find it as evocative as I do. Yes, it is fanfic. But if it makes you feel better, substitute two different man-names. There's really nothing fandom-specific in this story...I just like to think about ninjas getting it on, hahaha.
-----
Sasuke thinks of other things when they do it. Sensational association games. Kakashi’s skin is smooth and he thinks of stones and frogs and water without ripples. Kakashi’s hair is soft and grey, warm mist and kittens and softly broken dawn and his breath is the strange air before a thunderstorm with teeth like lightning closing on his neck, quick strike and on to another area. Sasuke lets Kakashi roll him over on the bed.
He thinks, oddly, of vegetable gardens; freshly turned rows, tomatoes, zucchini, onions in soft dirt. Footprints as his toes flex and his feet arch and dig for purchase in the sheets. Kakashi’s belt buckle jingles, the burr of a zipper and the shush of clothing pushed aside lay train tracks, stretch for miles like scars crisscrossing the pale skin of the land. Horses racing, heartbeat-hooves thunder under hot skies’ intensity.
Kakashi’s eyes and he can’t breathe. Arresting, bright, full of love, for him, full like the ocean. Overflowing. High tide. Seashell nails clutching him, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as they writhe, grappling, vying to express this thing between them. Lights flash behind his closed eyelids and he wonders if he’s going to cry.
Sasuke sniffs, feeling water gathering at the corner of one eye, tries to focus more--and at the same time less--on Kakashi, what they’re doing together, to each other. He thinks he’ll go mad as his heart hammers in his chest and it might burst because it is full and squeezing in tandem with what Kakashi is doing and he’s just lying there. He should reciprocate, give back, do something. But his hand is shaking as he reaches and presses even closer to Kakashi and he knows that Kakashi knows. It is branded into his palm, radiating, burning into Kakashi’s skin, will forever be written there, an invisible seal of love and longing and things he’ll never say out loud.
Sasuke’s world seizes. Stutter--stop--stutter--stop-stutter-stutterstutterstop. Stop. His hearing rushes out to sea and returns on a wave. He’s bitten his tongue, and all he can say to Kakashi through the copper taste is “drapes” because the connections are gone. He can’t find the words. Kakashi takes it as approval, because he replies in kind: “toaster oven.” They laugh breathlessly, plastered together on the bed. Kakashi offers him a tissue and Sasuke takes it, holds it, wonders what to do with it. Kakashi takes another and wipes Sasuke’s face--he cried after all, then--and Sasuke dabs at the mess on his front. He brushes the hair out of Kakashi’s eyes and draws him close for a kiss, lets Kakashi’s sweat transform his lips into something else. He tingles, pulls back a fraction of an inch, and they breathe the same air. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
-----
Have I disappointed you by posting something old instead of writing something fresh?
I have, for the moment, decided against putting this under some kind of content filter because it is (very much) a fill-in-the-blanks piece of writing. If it were a painting, it would be the sort where you'd be stepping closer and back to try to find the perspective in which it makes the most complete picture. To rephrase: I don't think it's got enough in it to qualify for filtering. Let me know what you think, yeah?
I had both a very easy and a very difficult time writing this. It's very easy to get into the sort of stream-of-consciousness this piece takes on, but it is hard to hone it and reign it in. Even now, months after writing it, I'm still tempted to trim and rephrase pieces of it. Have I overwhelmed the reader with too many random thoughts in between the sexy bits? I hope I have, mostly because I thought all of it was sexy, even the weird, disconnected parts. I have this thing about language...(And for some reason, I couldn't come up with a better euphemism for sex than "doing it." It's just one of those things, I guess, founded in my interpretation of the characters.)
Also, I seem to have a continual struggle with pronouns versus proper names, especially when I've got two men on the page. I try to be specific in who is doing what, but sometimes I fail in juggling all the he- and him- and his-es.
~Later
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. All rights remain with its original creator, Masashi Kishimoto. I make no profit from writing these stories.
To celebrate the possibility that I may be recovering, I give you porn. Gay porn. Well, okay. It's not particularly explicit: I've seen pg-13 movies with naughtier sex. But I'm hoping you, the reader, will find it as evocative as I do. Yes, it is fanfic. But if it makes you feel better, substitute two different man-names. There's really nothing fandom-specific in this story...I just like to think about ninjas getting it on, hahaha.
-----
Sasuke thinks of other things when they do it. Sensational association games. Kakashi’s skin is smooth and he thinks of stones and frogs and water without ripples. Kakashi’s hair is soft and grey, warm mist and kittens and softly broken dawn and his breath is the strange air before a thunderstorm with teeth like lightning closing on his neck, quick strike and on to another area. Sasuke lets Kakashi roll him over on the bed.
He thinks, oddly, of vegetable gardens; freshly turned rows, tomatoes, zucchini, onions in soft dirt. Footprints as his toes flex and his feet arch and dig for purchase in the sheets. Kakashi’s belt buckle jingles, the burr of a zipper and the shush of clothing pushed aside lay train tracks, stretch for miles like scars crisscrossing the pale skin of the land. Horses racing, heartbeat-hooves thunder under hot skies’ intensity.
Kakashi’s eyes and he can’t breathe. Arresting, bright, full of love, for him, full like the ocean. Overflowing. High tide. Seashell nails clutching him, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as they writhe, grappling, vying to express this thing between them. Lights flash behind his closed eyelids and he wonders if he’s going to cry.
Sasuke sniffs, feeling water gathering at the corner of one eye, tries to focus more--and at the same time less--on Kakashi, what they’re doing together, to each other. He thinks he’ll go mad as his heart hammers in his chest and it might burst because it is full and squeezing in tandem with what Kakashi is doing and he’s just lying there. He should reciprocate, give back, do something. But his hand is shaking as he reaches and presses even closer to Kakashi and he knows that Kakashi knows. It is branded into his palm, radiating, burning into Kakashi’s skin, will forever be written there, an invisible seal of love and longing and things he’ll never say out loud.
Sasuke’s world seizes. Stutter--stop--stutter--stop-stutter-stutterstutterstop. Stop. His hearing rushes out to sea and returns on a wave. He’s bitten his tongue, and all he can say to Kakashi through the copper taste is “drapes” because the connections are gone. He can’t find the words. Kakashi takes it as approval, because he replies in kind: “toaster oven.” They laugh breathlessly, plastered together on the bed. Kakashi offers him a tissue and Sasuke takes it, holds it, wonders what to do with it. Kakashi takes another and wipes Sasuke’s face--he cried after all, then--and Sasuke dabs at the mess on his front. He brushes the hair out of Kakashi’s eyes and draws him close for a kiss, lets Kakashi’s sweat transform his lips into something else. He tingles, pulls back a fraction of an inch, and they breathe the same air. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
-----
Have I disappointed you by posting something old instead of writing something fresh?
I have, for the moment, decided against putting this under some kind of content filter because it is (very much) a fill-in-the-blanks piece of writing. If it were a painting, it would be the sort where you'd be stepping closer and back to try to find the perspective in which it makes the most complete picture. To rephrase: I don't think it's got enough in it to qualify for filtering. Let me know what you think, yeah?
I had both a very easy and a very difficult time writing this. It's very easy to get into the sort of stream-of-consciousness this piece takes on, but it is hard to hone it and reign it in. Even now, months after writing it, I'm still tempted to trim and rephrase pieces of it. Have I overwhelmed the reader with too many random thoughts in between the sexy bits? I hope I have, mostly because I thought all of it was sexy, even the weird, disconnected parts. I have this thing about language...(And for some reason, I couldn't come up with a better euphemism for sex than "doing it." It's just one of those things, I guess, founded in my interpretation of the characters.)
Also, I seem to have a continual struggle with pronouns versus proper names, especially when I've got two men on the page. I try to be specific in who is doing what, but sometimes I fail in juggling all the he- and him- and his-es.
~Later
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. All rights remain with its original creator, Masashi Kishimoto. I make no profit from writing these stories.
29 December 2009
Blast from the Past
I'm kind of too sick to concentrate and write. (Hell, I've been watching movies all day because reading books was too difficult.)
In the spirit of illness, I bring for your reading pleasure a poem from my past.
---
A Winter Sonnet
In wintertime we stay inside and drink
our herbal teas in hopes that we might not
succumb to colds and flus. We make a stink
when illness first appears as drippy snot.
We blow our noses ‘til they’re raw and red--
The trash can soon overflows with tissues.
The store brand cough drops cannot clear our heads.
We try to put aside these trifling issues.
We go to work and spread this horrid plague.
While sniffling in our shirtsleeves we’re mumbling
“Everything is fine.” But fine is too vague
a word for such a coughing, grumbling
disease that takes up all our strength and time.
Until we‘ve kicked it, all we do is whine.
----
I wrote that a while ago, but I still think it's pretty good. As I recall I spent a while making it appear to rhyme while phrasing it so that the end rhymes were downplayed in an out-loud reading. (I'm hoping this is my final version, and not a partway edited one full of embarassing errors...)
Here's to drinking herbal tea and using a million tissues!
~Later
In the spirit of illness, I bring for your reading pleasure a poem from my past.
---
A Winter Sonnet
In wintertime we stay inside and drink
our herbal teas in hopes that we might not
succumb to colds and flus. We make a stink
when illness first appears as drippy snot.
We blow our noses ‘til they’re raw and red--
The trash can soon overflows with tissues.
The store brand cough drops cannot clear our heads.
We try to put aside these trifling issues.
We go to work and spread this horrid plague.
While sniffling in our shirtsleeves we’re mumbling
“Everything is fine.” But fine is too vague
a word for such a coughing, grumbling
disease that takes up all our strength and time.
Until we‘ve kicked it, all we do is whine.
----
I wrote that a while ago, but I still think it's pretty good. As I recall I spent a while making it appear to rhyme while phrasing it so that the end rhymes were downplayed in an out-loud reading. (I'm hoping this is my final version, and not a partway edited one full of embarassing errors...)
Here's to drinking herbal tea and using a million tissues!
~Later
27 December 2009
I have no attention span.
Someday, this might turn into song lyrics.
---
It was a long time ago, best of friends
Playing make-believe and believing
Nothing would ever end. But you moved away
to a different place and I couldn’t follow you.
High school, still in our small town
Playgrounds long gone, leaves fallen on the ground.
On to college, the memory of you surrounding me
Adrift in the air, I think of summers when we played.
Your fragrance haunts me, years after you’d gone
And I had moved away and moved on.
Walking in my new city, my heart stops at the crosswalk.
It’s turning the corner, your hair, your face.
Why don’t I reach out and say hello?
Passing silent in the night
Walking fast along the street
I just want to stop and say
You’re the girl that I’m supposed to know.
I follow you, for a while, to be sure
High heeled shoes lead my heart to your door.
You go inside and turn on the light, staring out
Before drawing the blinds against the world.
It’s you and the doorbell is right over there
I’d push the button if I thought you’d care.
Why don’t I reach out and say hello?
Passing silent in the night
Walking fast along the street
I just want to stop and say
You’re the girl that I’m supposed to know.
And don’t I still love you?
You’re the girl that I’m supposed to know
And you don’t even know I’m there.
Why don’t I reach out and say hello?
Passing silent in the night
Walking fast along the street
I just want to stop and say
Goodbye, good night, girl I no longer know.
----
This was much choppier than I had wanted. I got distracted after (almost) every line I pounded out. It was also a challenge to not have a specific incident as reference for the subject matter; I kind of picked and chose and formed a composite. Some of it is patently untrue. I don't know why, but I was thinking about how strange it is to bump into people, especially when you are somewhere you would not expect that person to be. I like to think I saved the narrator from an awkward and disappointing confrontation here.
I'm hesitant to call these song lyrics. Maybe they're in some sort of hybrid state? I haven't really jumped into full-on lyrics, but I like to think that I've started to shape the poem around the conventional bones of verses and chorus and funky bridge/ending-chorus-that-isn't-quite-the-same. It's hard to do lyrics with no music in mind! Can you tell I was listening to Coldplay as as I puttered? I was going to parody them, but I'm a not-so-secret sucker for their songs. Also, I imagine it would be difficult to make a parody that was more serious than what I might normally do. It would be more of an homage than a pastiche, really. (Frankly, I'd rather do something completely original and serious than a serious take on someone else's stuff.)
And now, a short list.
Possibilities for parodies:
1. Exerciser (Womanizer by the infamous Britney Spears): a song about gyms and fitness and women who engage in these activities.
2. Eighteen Gays (18 Days by Saving Abel): ...doesn't the title cover it all? Possibly about eighteen men the narrator has dated, possibly a song about how he has eighteen gay friends and therefore cannot possibly hate gay people.
3. Something to the tune of Hit Me With Your Best Shot (ala Pat Benatar)
That's all I've got right now.
~Later
---
It was a long time ago, best of friends
Playing make-believe and believing
Nothing would ever end. But you moved away
to a different place and I couldn’t follow you.
High school, still in our small town
Playgrounds long gone, leaves fallen on the ground.
On to college, the memory of you surrounding me
Adrift in the air, I think of summers when we played.
Your fragrance haunts me, years after you’d gone
And I had moved away and moved on.
Walking in my new city, my heart stops at the crosswalk.
It’s turning the corner, your hair, your face.
Why don’t I reach out and say hello?
Passing silent in the night
Walking fast along the street
I just want to stop and say
You’re the girl that I’m supposed to know.
I follow you, for a while, to be sure
High heeled shoes lead my heart to your door.
You go inside and turn on the light, staring out
Before drawing the blinds against the world.
It’s you and the doorbell is right over there
I’d push the button if I thought you’d care.
Why don’t I reach out and say hello?
Passing silent in the night
Walking fast along the street
I just want to stop and say
You’re the girl that I’m supposed to know.
And don’t I still love you?
You’re the girl that I’m supposed to know
And you don’t even know I’m there.
Why don’t I reach out and say hello?
Passing silent in the night
Walking fast along the street
I just want to stop and say
Goodbye, good night, girl I no longer know.
----
This was much choppier than I had wanted. I got distracted after (almost) every line I pounded out. It was also a challenge to not have a specific incident as reference for the subject matter; I kind of picked and chose and formed a composite. Some of it is patently untrue. I don't know why, but I was thinking about how strange it is to bump into people, especially when you are somewhere you would not expect that person to be. I like to think I saved the narrator from an awkward and disappointing confrontation here.
I'm hesitant to call these song lyrics. Maybe they're in some sort of hybrid state? I haven't really jumped into full-on lyrics, but I like to think that I've started to shape the poem around the conventional bones of verses and chorus and funky bridge/ending-chorus-that-isn't-quite-the-same. It's hard to do lyrics with no music in mind! Can you tell I was listening to Coldplay as as I puttered? I was going to parody them, but I'm a not-so-secret sucker for their songs. Also, I imagine it would be difficult to make a parody that was more serious than what I might normally do. It would be more of an homage than a pastiche, really. (Frankly, I'd rather do something completely original and serious than a serious take on someone else's stuff.)
And now, a short list.
Possibilities for parodies:
1. Exerciser (Womanizer by the infamous Britney Spears): a song about gyms and fitness and women who engage in these activities.
2. Eighteen Gays (18 Days by Saving Abel): ...doesn't the title cover it all? Possibly about eighteen men the narrator has dated, possibly a song about how he has eighteen gay friends and therefore cannot possibly hate gay people.
3. Something to the tune of Hit Me With Your Best Shot (ala Pat Benatar)
That's all I've got right now.
~Later
22 December 2009
Don't panic! (It's just a parody.)
I wish I could rightfully blame this on drunkenness, but the truth is I've been mulling this one over for a while. Rated L for a bit of language...but mostly it's just kind of funny.
---
"Freeballin'" (to the tune of "Free Falling" by Tom Petty.)
It’s a hard life, living on my own,
Doing all the chores momma used to do.
Maybe someday I’ll be good at cleaning,
But ‘til then I may be screwed.
I did laundry ‘bout three weeks ago.
Do the dishes only when they gather ants.
Bedroom floor is covered in beer cans.
And today I don’t have no underpants
And I’m free, free-ballin’!
Yeah I’m free, free-ballin’!
I’m rushing, trying to get to work:
Can’t believe it’s already half past eight.
I can’t find any boxers or briefs.
I’ll have to go commando or be late!
And I’m free, free-ballin’!
Yeah I’m free, free-ballin’!
Been a long day, in my cubicle at work,
Eight hours (plus lunch) in khakis that chafe.
Feels so good to get home and strip down,
I’ll never make that same mistake!
And I’m free, free-ballin’!
Yeah I’m free, free-ballin’!
Yeah I’m free, free-ballin’!
Free-ballin’!
I’m free, free-ballin’!
----
...I can't believe I did that. Well, no, I can. It was slightly more challenging to do than I had anticipated, but certainly not as difficult as most structured forms of poetry I've tried.
I love that I have the right to parody and not go to jail for it.
~Later
---
"Freeballin'" (to the tune of "Free Falling" by Tom Petty.)
It’s a hard life, living on my own,
Doing all the chores momma used to do.
Maybe someday I’ll be good at cleaning,
But ‘til then I may be screwed.
I did laundry ‘bout three weeks ago.
Do the dishes only when they gather ants.
Bedroom floor is covered in beer cans.
And today I don’t have no underpants
And I’m free, free-ballin’!
Yeah I’m free, free-ballin’!
I’m rushing, trying to get to work:
Can’t believe it’s already half past eight.
I can’t find any boxers or briefs.
I’ll have to go commando or be late!
And I’m free, free-ballin’!
Yeah I’m free, free-ballin’!
Been a long day, in my cubicle at work,
Eight hours (plus lunch) in khakis that chafe.
Feels so good to get home and strip down,
I’ll never make that same mistake!
And I’m free, free-ballin’!
Yeah I’m free, free-ballin’!
Yeah I’m free, free-ballin’!
Free-ballin’!
I’m free, free-ballin’!
----
...I can't believe I did that. Well, no, I can. It was slightly more challenging to do than I had anticipated, but certainly not as difficult as most structured forms of poetry I've tried.
I love that I have the right to parody and not go to jail for it.
~Later
18 December 2009
Excerpts
I'm not putting the whole free-write up here. Suffice it to say that I'm feeling down again.
---
I’m pretending she doesn’t exist
even though everything I do reminds me.
Missing people leave
Ragged holes in the fabric of our space and time
Seen only at night when between the stars grows
Wider and darker than we remember.
The abrupt leavings that tear through us
Leave our united fronts asunder.
I hated her and she didn’t care.
I loved her and it wasn’t enough.
I want to save her
When she is gone, gone, gone.
Pick pick pick pick at the unseen wound
Turn it over and over, unable to decipher its shape
I am heartbroken.
Rejected: it wasn’t me
She chose to leave and not say goodbye.
If I could I’d excise this love
Weigh it, measure it
Box it up and throw it out.
She doesn’t deserve it, wouldn’t keep it
And I have no one else to take it.
---
Ugh. I wish I could sleep all this crap away, but I even dream about her.
~Later
---
I’m pretending she doesn’t exist
even though everything I do reminds me.
Missing people leave
Ragged holes in the fabric of our space and time
Seen only at night when between the stars grows
Wider and darker than we remember.
The abrupt leavings that tear through us
Leave our united fronts asunder.
I hated her and she didn’t care.
I loved her and it wasn’t enough.
I want to save her
When she is gone, gone, gone.
Pick pick pick pick at the unseen wound
Turn it over and over, unable to decipher its shape
I am heartbroken.
Rejected: it wasn’t me
She chose to leave and not say goodbye.
If I could I’d excise this love
Weigh it, measure it
Box it up and throw it out.
She doesn’t deserve it, wouldn’t keep it
And I have no one else to take it.
---
Ugh. I wish I could sleep all this crap away, but I even dream about her.
~Later
11 December 2009
Warning: May Contain Lesbians Invisible to the Naked Eye
Sometimes I cannot adequately convey my frustrations. Also, this poem is in rough shape. It may not be done. I can't rightly tell yet.
---
Invisible lesbians
Come from invisible isles
Have invisible names
Forgettable haircuts, paper coffee cups
Sedate sedans and understated smiles.
They’re there at the corner of your eye:
If you look for them in the street.
But face them straight on and they disappear
Away on shoes with quiet heels:
Unremarkable size eight feet.
The books about them are elusive:
In libraries they move from shelf to shelf
In stores they cower behind the books of
Dead white men. Those stories bore me, passing over
All the things a woman might have said or felt.
The world needs more lesbians: not invisible
Not hidden out of sight and out of mind
Not written out of fiction, not blotted out of scripts
But there and real. High budget. No nonsense, just
Human and woman and easy to find.
---
This poem really stems from three things: one, I am in a mood for lesbians. I want to read books and watch movies and look at comics that are all about women being together (and apart.) Two: I could not find a good film to watch tonight. Three: general frustration at the continued domination and exclusion of women's writing. (I'm thinking specifically of some short story collections that were completely composed of either Dead White Men's work or just plain men's stories, all on topics which women frequently, successfully, and eloquently write.)
I suppose it's my twisty sense of feminism speaking out. It's bothersome to want things to be available that are so (apparently) elusive. I mean, I'm sure there's lots of lesbian material for me to consume, but I can't find it. And my point is kind of that it shouldn't be this hard to find in the first place. Accurate or not, I get the feeling that what I'm looking for is a fringe element of a subculture, which would make it an even smaller pool of availability than if I were just looking for some man-on-man stuff.
Ugh. Cultural stuff is weird. There's so much of it that I just don't understand, only so much of it that is accessible to me. This is why I shall become a hermit and live in a shack in the woods and commune with squirrels.
~Later
---
Invisible lesbians
Come from invisible isles
Have invisible names
Forgettable haircuts, paper coffee cups
Sedate sedans and understated smiles.
They’re there at the corner of your eye:
If you look for them in the street.
But face them straight on and they disappear
Away on shoes with quiet heels:
Unremarkable size eight feet.
The books about them are elusive:
In libraries they move from shelf to shelf
In stores they cower behind the books of
Dead white men. Those stories bore me, passing over
All the things a woman might have said or felt.
The world needs more lesbians: not invisible
Not hidden out of sight and out of mind
Not written out of fiction, not blotted out of scripts
But there and real. High budget. No nonsense, just
Human and woman and easy to find.
---
This poem really stems from three things: one, I am in a mood for lesbians. I want to read books and watch movies and look at comics that are all about women being together (and apart.) Two: I could not find a good film to watch tonight. Three: general frustration at the continued domination and exclusion of women's writing. (I'm thinking specifically of some short story collections that were completely composed of either Dead White Men's work or just plain men's stories, all on topics which women frequently, successfully, and eloquently write.)
I suppose it's my twisty sense of feminism speaking out. It's bothersome to want things to be available that are so (apparently) elusive. I mean, I'm sure there's lots of lesbian material for me to consume, but I can't find it. And my point is kind of that it shouldn't be this hard to find in the first place. Accurate or not, I get the feeling that what I'm looking for is a fringe element of a subculture, which would make it an even smaller pool of availability than if I were just looking for some man-on-man stuff.
Ugh. Cultural stuff is weird. There's so much of it that I just don't understand, only so much of it that is accessible to me. This is why I shall become a hermit and live in a shack in the woods and commune with squirrels.
~Later
10 December 2009
Assumptions
What with shoveling all the snow yesterday dumped on my stairs, I was worried I would be too tired to do a free-write. I should have known better.
-----
Fifty pound dog kibble sack: empty.
Army surplus backpack: full of this and that.
Bud Light can: forty but now twenty after a long sit down
In the downtown Laundromat,
waiting for clean clothes in out of the cold.
Two feet of snow dropped yesterday and the roads
Aren’t easy walking between the water and the cars.
Slumped in a chair
Back to the windows, wet boots stuck out
under the hot air vent, it’s the best sort of wind that blows.
It’s a hard day’s walking ahead, he knows,
slipping through drifts and over-the-boot-tops slush, unplowed
Sidewalks stretching ahead and behind.
Wind whips the powerlines so much the poles move
As the washer washes and the dryers tumble: twenty four hours
open no matter the weather. It’s always safe and dry.
Doing the load of laundry and hoping the sun will get a little warmer
By the time the laundry dries he’ll finish drinking and fold.
And back the clothing goes, not fifty pounds of puppy chow but
Something to weight the shoulder and carry on to home.
----
Because, of course, the laundromat is a secret hiding spot for inspiration. I don't know whether the man I saw was homeless or not, but he was definitely wandering around town drinking beer and carrying a dog food bag full of laundry.
I may come back to this poem later and work out some more of the clunkers. I realize I wasn't very consistent with the punctuation and capitalization, either. Oh well. It's something to save for a rainy day, I suppose.
~Later
-----
Fifty pound dog kibble sack: empty.
Army surplus backpack: full of this and that.
Bud Light can: forty but now twenty after a long sit down
In the downtown Laundromat,
waiting for clean clothes in out of the cold.
Two feet of snow dropped yesterday and the roads
Aren’t easy walking between the water and the cars.
Slumped in a chair
Back to the windows, wet boots stuck out
under the hot air vent, it’s the best sort of wind that blows.
It’s a hard day’s walking ahead, he knows,
slipping through drifts and over-the-boot-tops slush, unplowed
Sidewalks stretching ahead and behind.
Wind whips the powerlines so much the poles move
As the washer washes and the dryers tumble: twenty four hours
open no matter the weather. It’s always safe and dry.
Doing the load of laundry and hoping the sun will get a little warmer
By the time the laundry dries he’ll finish drinking and fold.
And back the clothing goes, not fifty pounds of puppy chow but
Something to weight the shoulder and carry on to home.
----
Because, of course, the laundromat is a secret hiding spot for inspiration. I don't know whether the man I saw was homeless or not, but he was definitely wandering around town drinking beer and carrying a dog food bag full of laundry.
I may come back to this poem later and work out some more of the clunkers. I realize I wasn't very consistent with the punctuation and capitalization, either. Oh well. It's something to save for a rainy day, I suppose.
~Later
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