Monday, February 20

True Blue

Been a few days since I've posted anything, so I thought perhaps it was time to share something new.  I wrote this poem as I lay sprawled out across the floor in my bedroom trying to work on a different poem.  It wasn't really coming to me, though, so I just started writing what was happening in my head.  It was sort of a brief exploration of my writer's block.

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True Blue

Two hundred and six pounds of mushy me
Lay across this too-blue-to-be-true-blue carpet,
Ankles crossed, large head resting on the pinched vein
Of a restless elbow that feels like buzzing.
The hair croaks “chaos” in a turbulent mess
Of chestnut flames that dance with every breath as these
Graphite words trace the flight of a moth too close to my cowlick,
Then, a mutinous elbow, and with a crash this face falls
Into the blue with a kiss of indifference.

An old wintertime housefly of ideas
Drones lifelessly, until
Sunlight vanishes as it pours through the site of the crash.
Now rouses a two hundred and six pound entomologist,
An insect coroner intent on autopsy
But an intertangled beard keeps his face pinned to the floor.


Sunday, February 5

Rambling at Five O'Clock on a Sunday Morning

On the seventh day God took a well-deserved nap, but I'm just waking up.  This rousing is nothing more than an accident, but surely I'm not the only one, after all it is time to get up.  Five o'clock is clearly morning, except outside in the dark where it's clearly nighttime.  Soon it will be that time where language gets funny because definitions begin to change.  That darkness will become a little less black and then it will become a little bit blue before becoming a weird something else and then suddenly it will become light.  It will become light and thus will be the true birth of this day.  With a scream of warmth, the placenta of night will fall into the ocean and send ripples crashing on every shore and the birds will begin to chirp and the reptiles will crawl onto rocks and I will be a few hours closer to expiration.

Expiration (n): 1) that point when language gets funny because the way you are defined begins to change, 2) when the life within gets lumpy and unusable, 3) death.

I'm eating an expired pig sandwich, though the ham is still good, and it's blackness is a sunrise inside me, changing from dark to something else to the light that is my life.  Oh, and I'm coughing.
My flu shot, designed to give me life by injecting me with death, has gotten me sick again this year.  So my nose leaks like a wound and coughs rack my mushy frame as my anti-bodies (who are on my side, despite the name) defend my life against influenzaic death.  Sometimes I think about those anti-bodies giving up and me dying.
On the seventh day God rested and called it holy.  The seventh day is when He stopped creating and soon after that, we must imagine, things started to die.  Killers gotta kill.  Sundays, then, are the time in between life and death.  They are the between-darkness-and-light of five o'clock in the morning, if we were to play the tape in reverse.  There is no moment which more energetically rebels against definition than five o'clock on a Sunday morning.  It is the in-between moment of the in-between day, where light and darkness meld together like life and death.  It is the moment when I eat the dead flesh of a pig to give me life.  It is the moment when I think, 'death probably can't be so bad.'
And then I think of my dog.  He was mostly dark but he had some light.  He's dead now, but he's alive in my memory.  So, I wonder, what does that make him?

Five o'clock on a Sunday morning.


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Wednesday, February 1


Having been home from my adventure for a while I've really started to miss it.  Waking up and knowing that I was going to do something new and see a place I've never seen was really invigorating.  Now I'm back home and, though I managed to maintain an interesting version of my life for a while, I'll very soon be slipping into a different pattern.  I'll wake up and go to a place I've been before and I'll do things that I've done before.

I'm not totally sure I really know what anxiety is, but I may be experiencing it.  For me, there's a serious discontent which arises in knowing that large portions of my life will be familiar.  I wrote this poem during such a time of discontent.

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It’s been three months since my friends and I have seen our homes,
Though hundreds of photographs have made their way back to our families,
Those voyeurs who peer at us through the keyhole lens of my 35 millimeter.
Our endlessly smiling faces have become the prisoners of a future scrapbook,
Tapping a tin cup against the bars lining every negative.
My memory is still fresh,
But like a patrolling warden,
I’m looking through them now,
And I hate what I see.
A well-timed pose at a sign near the border,
Another perfectly impossible grin.
These heaps of manipulated memories laugh at me from behind the bars,
Because they’ve known what I now do:
Manufacturing an experience is like framing the accused,
While the memories worth keeping are all on the lam.