Friday, September 16, 2011
While I was busy creating diversions, some piece of brain lay awake at night like a cranky baby with melancolic, busy composing this.
Sometimes the anticipation of missing someone is worse than noticing they've gone.
Insomnia Postcard: Still Here
You have gone,
and will not miss me.
There are too many new pieces there
to puzzle together,
busying a mind.
I will not be behind that strange new leaf--
the light will dapple places
your feet have never touched,
and you will peer at your toes
at a new angle,
reexamining their oddness.
In moments you might miss me--
like in populated squares
where strangers' fingers weave together
Or glasses of red wine sit around
in lazy, bloody pairs--
You will discover a single dark braid
laid down a slim young woman's back,
and stare at it and wonder
what it would feel like
in your hand.
I will still be here,
where every curb is one already
stepped over with you,
and each street or mailbox
is a part
of a familiar, old routine--
The dog on the corner is vaguely imitating
one we walked together.
I will see naked light bulbs
and think not of fields, or toes,
but of your head, freshly shaven,
toasting in the sun.
I will discover new things also,
and feel them in my palm,
Then turn to show you
as if you were there
the place you usually sit.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
I've been smelling the rank odor of blog death for weeks now.
What's that smell? I can't write with that stank all over!
It's the perfume of your own literary failure.
Oh. Well. Can you do something about it?
If you write it will go away.
That's absurd. 'Write'...nonsense. Just burn incense or something. Sandalwood, maybe.
I prefer strawberry.
I care not for your preference, I have writer's block and want to sulk in sandalwood.
Fine, stay a Debbie Downer with failure-stank all over her.
(EXITS, SLAMMING DOOR.
RANK ODOR INCREASES IN POTENCY.)
What's that smell??
Then I remembered the golden rule of the interwebs: If you find yourself unable to generate content, steal content from real writers. It's the blog equivalent of illegal organ harvesting. Or...yard doctoring. Yes, lets go with yard doctoring as a metaphor: Having discovered you can't even handle a ficus plant let alone an entire yard, you creep into your local botanist's private greenery and purloin some topiaries, then drop them into your lawn in the dead of night. The next day: Ta-da! New content, beautifully presented. Neighbors don't even ask whether you've taken up creative shrub-trimming--they're too busy going, "Oooooh, look, topiaries!" (If you doubt the accuracy of this metaphor, explain the prevalence of Tumblrs featuring adorable kittens that never give photo credit to the feline-photographer.)
Anyway, I'm diversioning attention away from the lack of work by posting more work by better writers. Starting................
THE SCARECROW, By Charles Simic
(from Aunt Lettuce, I Want To Peek Under Your Skirt)
God's refuted but the devil's not.
This year's tomatoes are something to see.
Bite into them, Martha,
As you would into a ripe apple.
After each bite add a little salt.
If the juices run down your chin
Onto your bare breasts,
Bend over the kitchen sink.
From there you can see your husband
Come to a dead stop in the empty field
Before one of his bleakest thoughts,
Spreading its arms like a scarecrow.