- When I have a hedgehog
- When it plays out like a romantic comedy
- When I have a hedgehog
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
When My Life Will Be Complete:
Saturday, December 3, 2011
This is the Last For the Night
I promise.
I just figured y'all should know that since there's a novel's worth of writing that I posted tonight, you shouldn't start reading with this post.
Well, actually, scratch that. You should.
Because if you read this post, you'll know to read the rest of the posts in reverse order.
Because I'm going to tell you.
They'll make more sense if you read them in the order that I actually posted them, as I did in fact organize these poems into a pseudo-series that doesn't really make sense if you read it backward.
Read them. Love them. Comment on them.
I just figured y'all should know that since there's a novel's worth of writing that I posted tonight, you shouldn't start reading with this post.
Well, actually, scratch that. You should.
Because if you read this post, you'll know to read the rest of the posts in reverse order.
Because I'm going to tell you.
They'll make more sense if you read them in the order that I actually posted them, as I did in fact organize these poems into a pseudo-series that doesn't really make sense if you read it backward.
Read them. Love them. Comment on them.
Absolom
Don't you wish you could see it all
like the signs on the side of the road
saying "fog may exist."
The tide rolls in
obscured by the paper
with no ink of retreat
and no hand holding the pen
to show it all stretched out.
Don't you wish
you could see it all?
like the signs on the side of the road
saying "fog may exist."
The tide rolls in
obscured by the paper
with no ink of retreat
and no hand holding the pen
to show it all stretched out.
Don't you wish
you could see it all?
I Look Better In Black
Is orange the color? I didn't know.
It doesn't fit everyone like you say it does
It doesn't fit much of anyone at all
It doesn't fit me.
You tell me to like it
But it's out of place
There's nothing here for it
But the flip end of the magnet
Pushing it back into my arms.
It doesn't fit everyone like you say it does
It doesn't fit much of anyone at all
It doesn't fit me.
You tell me to like it
But it's out of place
There's nothing here for it
But the flip end of the magnet
Pushing it back into my arms.
Originality
Re-puncturing the public eardrums
synthetic lace ringed with coffee
pretending not to be
in the arrowhead of a baroque modernity.
synthetic lace ringed with coffee
pretending not to be
in the arrowhead of a baroque modernity.
The Art of Misinterpretation
Words in the dryer
warm to the touch
until fingertips
steal
their sincerity.
Powder falls into
my prints, yours
meaning settling
in the creases and folds
differently
every time
until they are as cold
as when
they started
so you put them back in
and hope
the heat holds.
warm to the touch
until fingertips
steal
their sincerity.
Powder falls into
my prints, yours
meaning settling
in the creases and folds
differently
every time
until they are as cold
as when
they started
so you put them back in
and hope
the heat holds.
It's Raining Poems
I've written a lot of them lately.
I haven't written one for a couple weeks, after I wrote four in one night.
I was hesitant to post them, though. That's why they're still sitting on my desk, marked up but not finalized.
It used to seem like poetry wasn't meant to be published; like it was the rawness of thoughts passionately scribbled in the heat of a moment that made it beautiful.
I'm beginning to realize, though, that while the thoughts that make the poem special still come in that moment, the poem itself is the product of lots of careful thinking.
Instead of thinking of my poems as a done deal as soon as I place the last period, I've decided that they will never really be done until I can look at them and say yeah, that's about it. I have nothing more to say about that.
My teacher also suggested that I try grouping some of them. It's not all that uncommon for my poems to revolve around the same basic subject matter as poetry is written according to what occupies your brain, and for me, certain thoughts permeate through so many different aspects of my thinking that no matter what initially inspires a poem, they end up becoming a main part of it.
So, long story short, I'm going to be posting some poetry. But none if it is done. It's all still a work in progress.
Maybe one of these days I'll finish it all.
Until then, enjoy.
I haven't written one for a couple weeks, after I wrote four in one night.
I was hesitant to post them, though. That's why they're still sitting on my desk, marked up but not finalized.
It used to seem like poetry wasn't meant to be published; like it was the rawness of thoughts passionately scribbled in the heat of a moment that made it beautiful.
I'm beginning to realize, though, that while the thoughts that make the poem special still come in that moment, the poem itself is the product of lots of careful thinking.
Instead of thinking of my poems as a done deal as soon as I place the last period, I've decided that they will never really be done until I can look at them and say yeah, that's about it. I have nothing more to say about that.
My teacher also suggested that I try grouping some of them. It's not all that uncommon for my poems to revolve around the same basic subject matter as poetry is written according to what occupies your brain, and for me, certain thoughts permeate through so many different aspects of my thinking that no matter what initially inspires a poem, they end up becoming a main part of it.
So, long story short, I'm going to be posting some poetry. But none if it is done. It's all still a work in progress.
Maybe one of these days I'll finish it all.
Until then, enjoy.
I Would Like to Apologize in Advance
For the amount of posts that will be on today's date. I have lots of different things to talk about.
First of all, I'm thinking about getting rid of the music player on my page.
I mean, come on, it's really just kind of annoying.
Even I mute it as soon as I open the page. And it's my music. I picked it. Yet I hate listening to it.
Maybe it's because I'm unfocused and can't read and listen to any sort of music at the same time.
Anyway, do you guys actually like it there, or do you just immediately mute it too?
First of all, I'm thinking about getting rid of the music player on my page.
I mean, come on, it's really just kind of annoying.
Even I mute it as soon as I open the page. And it's my music. I picked it. Yet I hate listening to it.
Maybe it's because I'm unfocused and can't read and listen to any sort of music at the same time.
Anyway, do you guys actually like it there, or do you just immediately mute it too?
Oh, Hey There
The other day, I was all daaaamn I've done a ton of writing lately.
Which I have.
In my head.
Isn't that great? I compose entire entries, and then they never get an audience. Except the one in my head. And that audience really enjoys what I have to say.
One of them that I never got to share with you was about hedgehogs.
They're cute.
And I want one.
Too bad it would have a crazy person for a mother.
Anyway, that's not even the point of this post. At all. The point is concerts.
Concerts, in case you weren't aware, have rules. Not the kinds of rules that are embossed on a cheap piece of plastic and nailed next to the door, but the unspoken rules that everybody should have the common sense and lack of idiocy to follow.
First rule: Leave your fucking candy at home.
Honestly.
When your crinkly wrapper begins to overshadow the violin solo, we have a problem.
So unless what you are unwrapping is vital to your immediate health, put it away, I'm begging you. Before I get violent.
Second rule: When asked to sing along to a piece, sing the melody like everybody else in the entire auditorium.
Yes, we know there is a harmony to this song. Do you know it? Great. Do you sound good on it? What's that? You don't? Then shut the hell up.
There was this one lady tonight, seated a bit further down the row than my family, who had one of the classic old lady voices. Like the muscles that used to hold her chords in place so she could sing nice, clear pitches have gotten so old and flabby that her vibrato has practically taken on a life of its own. She's singing away, the floor is on the verge of shaking with the reverberations of her vocalizing, and decides that it is absolutely necessary to broadcast her knowledge of obscure harmonies.
Now, I'm not saying harmonizing is a bad thing. But if you learned it back when you still had teeth and haven't sung it since, you probably should not attempt it any more. Because, news flash, it sounds like shit.
Also, she decided that the rest of us silly audience members had clearly never been in a choir before, because instead of singing along with the conductor who was at least 100 feet away and therefore not on the same tempo as the sound that was actually reaching our ears, we were listening instead to the choir, and singing along with them.
Silly us.
So she sang with the conductor. Putting her a fraction of a beat ahead, a couple notes off key, and dangerously far away from any sort of sound that people would ever voluntarily listen to.
Third rule (and, may I say, the most important rule): I. Don't. Want. To. Hear. You. Breathe.
Ever.
EVER.
Like, Christ. If I wanted to hear some sort of confirmation that you were still alive over there, I would just wait until the song was over and see if you clapped. But unless you just finished running a marathon, I don't want to hear your breath ever. Blanket rule.
Especially if you're like the woman to my right who couldn't even breathe in a normal pattern like every other person on the planet.
You know, most of us take an in breath, let it out. An in breath, let it out.
Not that you can hear us.
But no, no no. That was not good enough for this woman.
Instead, she voted to take two quick breaths, one right after another. Hold without noise for about five seconds. Then two more quick breaths. And hold.
All while sounding like an elephant with asthma.
Well, lady, if there was a chance I was going to enjoy this piano solo, you just blew it. Thanks.
I could barely contain my rage.
Other unmentioned rules include: keep your illness at home or at least don't cough like you're a wild animal, note that stage whispering does not actually count as whispering, especially during a quick, sensitive song, and please for the love of god do not clap in the middle of a song. It's not over until the conductor's hands are down or the soloist breaks out of the moment. Everybody knows that. Everybody.
But anyway, on a calmer, less violent note, the concert was fantastic! I now kind of wish that I could play the violin, or that I was a man so that I could sing tenor.
You know, either works.
Which I have.
In my head.
Isn't that great? I compose entire entries, and then they never get an audience. Except the one in my head. And that audience really enjoys what I have to say.
One of them that I never got to share with you was about hedgehogs.
They're cute.
And I want one.
Too bad it would have a crazy person for a mother.
Anyway, that's not even the point of this post. At all. The point is concerts.
Concerts, in case you weren't aware, have rules. Not the kinds of rules that are embossed on a cheap piece of plastic and nailed next to the door, but the unspoken rules that everybody should have the common sense and lack of idiocy to follow.
First rule: Leave your fucking candy at home.
Honestly.
When your crinkly wrapper begins to overshadow the violin solo, we have a problem.
So unless what you are unwrapping is vital to your immediate health, put it away, I'm begging you. Before I get violent.
Second rule: When asked to sing along to a piece, sing the melody like everybody else in the entire auditorium.
Yes, we know there is a harmony to this song. Do you know it? Great. Do you sound good on it? What's that? You don't? Then shut the hell up.
There was this one lady tonight, seated a bit further down the row than my family, who had one of the classic old lady voices. Like the muscles that used to hold her chords in place so she could sing nice, clear pitches have gotten so old and flabby that her vibrato has practically taken on a life of its own. She's singing away, the floor is on the verge of shaking with the reverberations of her vocalizing, and decides that it is absolutely necessary to broadcast her knowledge of obscure harmonies.
Now, I'm not saying harmonizing is a bad thing. But if you learned it back when you still had teeth and haven't sung it since, you probably should not attempt it any more. Because, news flash, it sounds like shit.
Also, she decided that the rest of us silly audience members had clearly never been in a choir before, because instead of singing along with the conductor who was at least 100 feet away and therefore not on the same tempo as the sound that was actually reaching our ears, we were listening instead to the choir, and singing along with them.
Silly us.
So she sang with the conductor. Putting her a fraction of a beat ahead, a couple notes off key, and dangerously far away from any sort of sound that people would ever voluntarily listen to.
Third rule (and, may I say, the most important rule): I. Don't. Want. To. Hear. You. Breathe.
Ever.
EVER.
Like, Christ. If I wanted to hear some sort of confirmation that you were still alive over there, I would just wait until the song was over and see if you clapped. But unless you just finished running a marathon, I don't want to hear your breath ever. Blanket rule.
Especially if you're like the woman to my right who couldn't even breathe in a normal pattern like every other person on the planet.
You know, most of us take an in breath, let it out. An in breath, let it out.
Not that you can hear us.
But no, no no. That was not good enough for this woman.
Instead, she voted to take two quick breaths, one right after another. Hold without noise for about five seconds. Then two more quick breaths. And hold.
All while sounding like an elephant with asthma.
Well, lady, if there was a chance I was going to enjoy this piano solo, you just blew it. Thanks.
I could barely contain my rage.
Other unmentioned rules include: keep your illness at home or at least don't cough like you're a wild animal, note that stage whispering does not actually count as whispering, especially during a quick, sensitive song, and please for the love of god do not clap in the middle of a song. It's not over until the conductor's hands are down or the soloist breaks out of the moment. Everybody knows that. Everybody.
But anyway, on a calmer, less violent note, the concert was fantastic! I now kind of wish that I could play the violin, or that I was a man so that I could sing tenor.
You know, either works.
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