1.25.2011

from the archives: frostbite

in honor of this frigid weather...

frostbite

it comes to the hands first
so rigid and tight -
numb and hurting -
mucus forming in my nostrils
wanting to drip
but I have no tissue,
causing a sniffle.

I see them across the way
and wonder
if they feel this bitterness
as I do...

if you tolerate it long enough
the cold turns
into a warmness
a wool blanket
bought on a dirty Indian street -
it becomes two pairs of socks
on a cold temple room floor.
it takes over
and you feel it no more.

1.21.2011

billy collins

I'm getting ready to go back to my adjunct teaching gig on monday. it's the job I love the most and the one I wish I could do full-time. I don't really have to psych myself up much, but it doesn't hurt to go to my teacher zen place... 

Billy Collins, who, incidentally,  I think is handsome.


I fell in geeky-poetry love with Billy Collins when I started using some of his stuff during the poetry unit of the survey of literature class that I teach. I love his sarcasm/wit/dry humor. I use this poem as the title indicates... as an introduction to [talking about/reading] poetry.

Introduction to Poetry

by Billy Collins


I ask them to take a poem   
and hold it up to the light   
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem   
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room   
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski   
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope   
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose   
to find out what it really means

from The Apple that Astonished Paris

and just so you can get a feel for his humor (you know, the nerdy poetry kind...):

1.19.2011

a little j.o.y. never hurt anyone... jenny owen youngs that is.

this evening I had the rare opportunity to be alone in my car for more than five minutes... about twenty five to be exact. alone car time means one of two things: either complete silence or music at full blast. tonight I decided on the latter - I have totally been needing some music therapy. I decided on some jenny owen youngs - who has been my soundtrack for life as of late. I fell in love with her sound way back when I first heard her on my friend kristen's myspace page (you know, back when people still used myspace). it was defintiely love at first listen. j.o.y is a complete song writing genius in my [completely worthless] opinion. I'm not sure what it is about her that I feel like I relate to the most - I think maybe it's the subtle self-loathing syndrome... but mostly I find myself thinking that if I was a singer/songwriter, I would want to write songs like her. you can't beat lines like:

"I've been mapping it out/ I don't know what's wrong with me/ but I wish that it was something else/ I've been mapping it out/ maybe you should find a girl/ that cares about herself." from drinking song.



or, like:
"something's lost when I translate you/ think I have it/then it slips through/decoding you has proved the hardest thing/I know you love me if it starts to sting" from if I didn't know.



or...
"parts of me I don't need anymore can go...make it a clean break/make it a fast cut/ don't want to feel the ache/ don't want to keep the rot" from clean break.
 


and of course one of her most well known...

"if we weren't such good friends I think that I'd hate you/ if we weren't such good friends I'd wish you were dead." from fuck was I.



and lastly the line I love the most...

"123, I hate me./there's no one else who I know how to be." from coyote.



oh, jenny, thanks for a fun ride home.

me and jenny when I saw her play the internet cafe in 2007. I think I told her I wanted a crazy picture. alas the internet cafe is now an urban outfitters I think.








1.17.2011

from the archives: of all the k's

of all the k's

I search for identity
in names.
so many I have inhabited
yet none fitting,
comfortable or comforting.
of all the k's
you chose this one -
so harsh and cutting -
unpleasantly
giving me
some form 
of history.

1.14.2011

thoughts and intersections


I want to be writing. I miss it more than ever. I'm always inspired when I see an awesome blog post somewhere else, or when one of my friends blogs away. I've been trying to think how I can go about this in a way to get myself writing more, while also keeping it practical for my self in my current situation.

so one idea I had was to post some of my older writing. I figure that this will work two fold - 1. it may inspire me to write new stuff 2. it gets some of my other stuff out there. I used to have a real website with all of my writing on it, but then I switched from crap-pc to macworld and never started rebuilding it. so yea, I think I'm going to start doing that...

also, I was thinking of doing some "be grateful for what I have in the moment" posts. without going into too much detail, we're in a bit of financial trouble over here and we've really had to tighten the old bootstraps. I'm not an excessive crazy buyer like I buy $500 purses or jimmy choo's, but I do like to buy things. so I was thinking that I could start posting things that I have that I am grateful for - in all realms - friends, family, spiritually, materially - and maybe this will help me have some perspective.

those are my ideas for now. I hope to get myself moving along. I'll also be updating my favorite shopping sites and blogs as I go along. I've been building a folder of bookmarks for a while, but just haven't had the chance to put everything up.

I hope you'll stay tuned. here's something to wet your pallet... or whatever.


intersection

at the place
where 527 and 537
meet
there is a ranch house.
outside,
a man in a wheelchair
watches traffic
go by
while his little
white poodle
sniffs the grass.
I wonder,
has he seen me
drive by
twice,
recognized my car?
will he call my boss
and say,
‘she is not at her desk
staring at her computer.
she is taking advantage,
and you pay her
to run errands, instead.’
the flag
outside of his door
makes me imagine him
as some kind of survivor
of war,
as one
who has seen enough
to see right
through
me.