Best of my old blog #8 Poetry

Just read over yesterday's blog. That just sucked. Going to try to do better today, but don't hold your breathe.

Like most of my blogs, this one starts with me sitting on my couch in comfy clothes. I'm not terribly hung-over, surprise surprise considering how heavily I hit the bola (that's spiked punch to you English-speaking folks, and spody to you Cascadians) at Sindri's 25^th last night. That went ok, some decent joking, a little flirting, but not too much, and right in the middle of the party, IT SNOWED!!!!!

Big-time fluffy whiteness abounds! Joy!

So I went out in many layers of warm stuff and played in it on my way to the market to pick up dinner stuff. I've started making a habit of cooking something very yummy on Sundays, inviting whoever happens to come to mind to eat it with me. Makes up for the lack of family in a way, not to mention greases the wheels of karma. Sadly my guest of (dis)honor wasn't able to make it. I invited Helga to make up for yet another drunken proposition! I seriously don't get this. I lived with the girl for the better part of a year and a half, and kept my cool (generally) the whole time. She moves out, and suddenly, my drunken ass can't stop trying to get in her pants. I suck. I just need to figure out why I'm doing this so I can knock it the fuck off.

So here I sit, food roasting away in the oven, Ladysmith Black Mambazo on the stereo, chillin. I just don't have much to say today, or, more truthfully, all the things I can think of writing about would require a level of effort that I just can't be assed to rise to.

Therefore, as certain friends have been pushing me to, and as I have nothing better to do, I shall expose the world to more of my pathetic attempts at poetry, just because some people (you know who you are and you are to blame!) seem to like it.

Start things off with something I wrote when I was only 16, traveling through Cali for the first time…

Mojave

In the hard
drought of winter
Immobile Joshua
stands witness
to my wilted heart
my dry-leaf voice
(dead leaves rustling on sand)
rolling across this old man's land.

Immobile Joshua
standing sentinel
guarding the land of the sun.
I am an interloper here
(with my withered old soul)
falling ever and ever into the desert.

And how these
crowded whisper clutch
(in my traveling mind)
known only to a child of dust,
and the arid god's disciple.

Joshua standing in ecstasy…

Wrote this one about an ex, when I got back from Iceland the first time…

For "Curls"

This morning I found three brown hairs
nestled in the pocket of an old leather coat
long unworn.
And I remember how they had lain against my chest
on that rainy night when we huddled at the bus-stop
my hands too shy to brave the passing headlights and
stay, cupping your cool breast.

Later, I remember how it felt when the waters came,
your gasps and pants and shy invulnerable shudders,
that night we played at Genesis.
How I pressed inside you, shaking as the tide rose to my ragged breathe.
That glory will not leave me, and I will not renounce it,

but for your asking…

And just to be absolutely sure to bore the crap out of you, dear perturbed reader…

Protection

I will hold you beloved
wrap the iron wings of a
mother's shawl about your thin shoulders,
the adamantine love of the unshattered home
and no king shall stand against you
and never a blade shall bite,
and Death shall have no dominion here.

There it is dear reader, I shall provide generous shots of insulin to counteract the vaemi (not really translatable, but has to do with sickeningly sweet and/or maudlin things) and promise to keep my crap poems away from the blog for a while now.

Sorry.