London

I really miss the endless possibility of London, England. Being there last spring meant that I was not safe, I was not coddled, I had to be a single human being. It was a great thrill to be totally independent, on a different continent than all of the people I relied on. I loved it.

I loved being just me. Not the me attached to my parents, or an appendage of my ex, or the shoulder my friends leaned on. The me that liked to flirt and dance and drink and sing and laugh and play. The me that felt like life was exciting and everything was achievable if only you fucking go out and actively do it. Thinking only gets you so far.

Imitations of poets

An imitation of Anne Sexton:

The bright box pinching my brain.

I am a vegetable.

Stew me and feed me to the lobotomized.

We have something in common

and can cry together in deadened madness.


An imitation of Alberto Rios:

An elevator chose not to move up or down
but backwards, sucking a man into classrooms
and dull as wheat bread lectures, kissing under trees,
touchdowns on grassy lakes, and punching friends' arms,
then it spat him out again on the top floor.


An imitation of Ted Hughes:

Tight and panicked, his muscles hug the fur,
Eyes horrified, a click of his heart's snapping beat
Kicks his hind legs into motion, wadded tail of grace
Prays for the safety of laying hard and hot against
A trees open trunk. Upside down and lonely.


An imitation of William Wallace McCombs:

We pulled skunk weed and moss
from Wyndehurst's dry dirt.
We tucked it into mole holes,
after we'd stomped on their hills
and apologized to our rodents.


An imitation of Phillip Larkin:

It comes in torrents, breaking on the bay
Of distant horizon as it swallows sun
At end of life, soaking up the day.
No time to run or place in which to hide
The dawn is gone and best of luck to die.


An imitation of Phillip Levine:

Inside of red paint, inside of animal skins,
Inside of bulb-lit casinos and martini glasses,
Inside of penned-in trodden down souls,
Inside of peace pipe, poker chip, tan hide, grave eyes,
The war chant grows.


An imitation of Eavan Boland:

The fields are flat.
Heavy and open,
the clear, sharp rows of corn
prick me.
I am crushed flat with fear.


An imitation of Adrienne Rich:

You demanded to be a princess
and the ruffles on your dress outfrilled frill.
I pushed you on the swing as you cried "higher!"
and smiling, my tear kissed the lawn
as I remembered being you.


An imitation of Lorna Goodison:

Staring into a sky that goes on forever
you think flying wouldn't be all that hard
if you just thought light thoughts and spread
your fingertips apart, letting air find its balance
over your wings, lighter now, with muscular breath
you can lift your great Chinese fans up
and down, high and low, flying and dying into the air.


An imitation of Lyn Hejinian:

Today, my feet took me to a field
            flattened by loneliness
            green with hope
The weeds, the eyes wink
            in the empty breeze
I stand in despair
            my toes pet the forehead
            of its rejected child
Unworthy of so much longing
            observation does little.

Tick

(By Vivian Richmond)

"Time," I've heard, "is a silver pocket watch.
God, the great Time-Keeper. He, the One,
winds our lives with thumb and finger twist."

Pray you to the hand that holds the watch.
One and only snaps the lid tight shut,
cutting off our ever sorry lies.

Drop a bottle cap, and you will not
hear the Tick of Time. A wristwatch may
Tick just so, as penny 'gainst the dime.

Time's great Tick is thund'rous loud. Fear
stroke and gong of monstrous Notre Dame.
It is coming, fast and strong. Time

does not stop for likes of you and I.
Death comes marching, link by link, a chain
lying in the open palm of God's right hand.

Tock.

Ice Planet

I cannot express how utterly excited I am by the prospect of making real, honest to God ICE PLANET! I found this most wonderful, glorious link today: The Trouble with Ice Planet. Go look!

Klepto

"Kleptomania (also spelled cleptomania) (Greek: κλέπτειν, kleptein, "to steal", μανία, "mania") is the condition of not being able to resist the urge to collect or hoard things."

My roommate is not a klepto. She's a thief. Before, I believed her little antics to be humorous - a mere "Fuck you!" to The Man. I understand stealing odds and ends from Walmart or Kmart or other monopolies. I myself have shoplifted a couple of items; all you have to do is take off the barcode. But when I take her to my favorite cafe/shop of all time, tell her it's my favorite place to come and chill and I'll always be found there when I visit Lexington, she still goes and steals a necklace from the front.

It deeply wounds my soul to be so deceived. I assumed she had some morals, some values when it came to her relieving a store of a few bits and bobs. I thought that perhaps she only stole from those who didn't need the money, those who wouldn't miss a little something here or there, those who were not useful to society or honorable in business. But no. She stole from the most loving, community-oriented, down-to-earth, trusting coffee shop in existence.

She is not a kleptomaniac. It's premeditated.

I find it despicable.

How do I tell her?

Renew, Reuse, Redesign

I have updated the look of my site. And hopefully I'll update the content as well. We shall see.

Good to Change

So quite a few considerable things have changed in my life:

1.) Jay and I have ended our relationship after 6 years.

2.) I am in love with a multi-talented and wonderous Spaniard who's halfway across the world.

3.) I spent 6 months in England from January to June at a theatre college right outside of London.

4.) I have reunited with Betsy.

There will be more about this in the future.

I'm going to go move my furniture now.