tremulous talent

It’s so much harder to write when you have nothing to angst over. Poetry, at best, rips open the chest cavity and lets the author pour his/her life into you, filling you up with fear and uncomfortable, awful feeling. Catharsis, vicarious, simultaneous, collective, yet, heartbreakingly unique. And, now, content, I have nothing. Very few new words, even less clever turns of phrase.

My barbed tongue is at rest. I got fat cat lazy in SLO. An early New Year’s Resolution, to turn this around and write something new. Isn’t that the claim of a great writer, to imitate emotion and still develop convincing sincerity? Now to put that to the test. Be back soon, promise.

books of september/october/november/december

Flight- Sherman Alexie
Molo Ka’i- Alan Brennert
The Life of Frederick Douglass- Frederick Douglass
Black Robe- Brian Moore
A Study in Scarlet- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Colossus- Sylvia Plath
The Stranger (reread)- Albert Camus
Fresh Voices 2009-2010 edition- Compilation
White Noise- Dom Delillo
In progress:
The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man- James Joyce
The Sign of Four- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Count Zero- William Gibson
Spook Country- William Gibson

bounce bounce bounce bounce

i’ll come back. eventually.

somethingnew somethingelse

this is old. i’ve rewritten it a few times lately though.

these hours hang suspended
in wait for that uneasy call.
i pick each second from the air,
gather them into tiny, dry piles,
and roll them up as minutes.
i smoke time down to ashy regret;
my lungs raw from all of this misplaced nostalgia.

you carry fear around your neck.
it pulls your shoulders down and in:
a disease.
you infected me.
my blood has become claustrophobic,
and these veins are only getting smaller.
a frantic push against the confine of my paper skin
raised
blue
and purple
and green varicose.
maps of the freeway system of los angeles on my forearms,
and there is a traffic jam at my wrists
twenty four hours a day.

i am waiting for you to catch fire.
your gypsy hands were not meant to last.
fingertips traipse on my paths

in line with that crooked compass.

i turn my head away;

apathetic.
i want to exchange my good sense
for some bad money
and even worse ideas,
so i may take my visions back from you
and break them one by one.

i want your soul
and to fall asleep not by counting,
but with recollections of sense memory.
stuttered breath reflexes
bow my tissue back into that arch
of phantom remembrance.

uncomplicated

for now

books of august

(new system- updating as I finish the books)

When He Was Wicked- Julia Quinn

It’s In His Kiss- Julia Quinn

On the Way to the Wedding- Julia Quinn

The Gift- Julie Garwood

Stardust- Neil Gaiman

Neuromancer- William Gibson (reread)

tired

of this half state i’ve been in.

time to move on. my decisions always seem swift, with things like this.

cold, harsh, irresponsible, immature, afraid of commitment. i have been labeled those things by various ex’s. it doesn’t bother me. i understand what i feel, what i know. i am still learning, but i am getting better at determining when things have expired, when putting in any more effort is a waste.

i want something else.

books of july

Devil’s Bride- Stephanie Laurens

The Duke and I- Julia Quinn

Romancing Mr. Bridgerton- Julia Quinn

The Viscount Who Loved Me- Julia Quinn

An Offer From a Gentleman- Julia Quinn

Haunted- Chuck Palahniuk

Fight Club- Chuck Palahniuk

Brave New World (reread)- Aldous Huxley

The Pacific Review Volume 27- Various

The Metamorphosis and Other Stories- Franz Kafka

vroom

i want to drive
desperately
reading the driver’s handbook. pretty basic.
took the practice tests. passed them all.
i think i’ll sell my eggs and buy a car. i don’t need them anyway.

hm

120 pounds for the first time in years.
well. mixed. that is all.