This too shall pass (I hope)

The Lindy Hop

Dance, you mad whirling bastards!  Kick up your heels thusly!

Dancing is just one of those things

I cannot do (sober) unless it is a full moon.  Lycanthropy and coordination are

remarkably similar conditions...  So why do I sometimes

think that

I should

dance

with

you?

New thought:

Where were you when Michael Flatly became intolerable to watch?  I don't remember, myself,

not when there are other things to never forget remembering.  Never remember.

Yell up the stairs saying hello for the first time or the

most recent time (time being what it was, it will be impossible to have been recalling)

did they actually know just what is/couldbe/wouldbe/won'tbe/am?

Thump.  Thump.

The dancers jump.

Twist. Twist.

Methinks they're pissed.

Flop, flap.

The people applaud.

In Which I am not a Poet

This does not make me a poet

There might be some temptation you see to say that now, now that I haven't written anything that

isn't poetry

isn't essay

isn't anything like a lie

for a while that I have stopped being author to become a poet.

I never thought much of the machinations of the universe (university)

not when it came to what it did to me (not free, that's the solution for—getting head of myself).

There are only a few times a month when I am write.

Savor this one.  Cleverness offset by a writing mistake.

Yin and yang.

I stole that from a conversation we had once.  Originality is a grand thing.

This is stolen too:

Do you want to become a lonely grumpy smartass?

That's implying I'm not already.

I made this poetic by saying it was poetic.  Don't you agree?

Line breaks wear down returns.  There is an ancient mariner, and he refuses to pay his fee.

Fi.

Fo.

Fum.

We done here?

Yeah, we're done.

Strange Happenings

I have, of late, become rather discontented with Barry Macsweeny.  We didn't get along from the get-go, and I find his poetry trite and boring.  It is small wonder to me that his book is out of print, because he sucks.  But what use is my opinion?  You won't have to read him unless you happen to be taking postmodern poetics as well, which you aren't.  Probably.

But I am, and it has made me hate the man.  Well, not the man, but certainly I don't like his poetry very much.  There's no playing around in it!  It's all the same sort of images and themes we've seen before, or maybe I'm just getting cynical.  Which is possible.  Of course.

And now I am in a strange place, brain-wise.  I find myself reading him and thinking that I want to be reading something else, something that isn't Macsweeny's poetry.  So I turn to my shelf, and consider it closely, and (instead of a novel) I take down a collection of Bernstein's poetry I got from the library and haven't had the chance to read, and I think what the fuck just happened here?

I wanted a break from work, so I pulled down a book of poetry?  I am reading this poetry for pleasure, rather than to feed any sort of research, or because I have to, or anything so strange as that.  I pulled the book down because I enjoy reading Charles 'motherfucking' Bernstein and no other reason.

At some point, I became
incredibly
fucking
pretentious.

Shock! Horror!

Okay, I'll admit it.

This poetry thing is difficult to give up. I suspect it's the newness of the thing; like I said, it's not the sort of thing I've ever done before. So here's a couple more poems, freshly minted this very day, for you to peruse and (most likely) snicker at. Because they're really, well, probably not that great. I'm trying to update this on a semi-regular basis now (call it a late New Year's resolution), and poetry's quicker for me to write these days. As for the short stories, well, I can't give those up, so don't worry.

Morning Would

Roll over, hit the

Alarm, grab new

Clothes, take a

Shower, brush your

Teeth, and confront

The day without

Deciding to call it a

Wash and go back to bed.

The last part always was

Tricky.

It's a Gas

There's no secret to snatching

Success these days,

One need only attain

Precisely what every one else is trying

To attain--

But more of it than them

Because more of it

Makes you better,

Blesses you with

Freedom, friends, fantastical

Fucking phenomenal

Opportunity.

Go live the dream!

Do what you need to do

Because there's no other way

To get what you want

If you want to be comfortable

That is.

Do what you want

Once you've done

Your time in the mines,

Chase your dream once

You don't have to worry about

Where your next meal's coming from

Or how to impress the girls

Or where to live

Or how to pay your taxes.

Don't get me wrong

I think it's very important

That we all keep working

And nobody does what they

Really want to do,

What would that do, after all?

It simply can't work,

Won't work, you

Have to take

Responsibility

Do your

Part to forge your own

Chains. Otherwise

You'll just

Die like all the
Others, hungry

But

Free.

Is that worth it? The

Cost of living

Is your dreams,

Is that a fair

Price?

The cost of your dreams

Might be your death

But I hear that's not

Worth much these days,

So really it's quite a

Bargain.

Highly unexpected.

This was the last thing I thought I'd ever write, or do--but I spent the last week in an awful lot of art galleries and it got me thinking, and once I started thinking it was hard to stop, and then all of a sudden I sat down on Wednesday night and wrote poetry for the first time in over ten years (I believe the last time I wrote poetry I was in fifth grade, making it a total of...thirteen years (and even then it was just because I was forced to by my teacher and I hated it, so it's really the first time I've ever written poetry)).

Here's some of them, at any rate. I don't know if it's good or not, because poetry's a lot weirder than a story. A story, you can read and it either tells you a story or it doesn't. A poem can do whatever the fuck it wants, and rarely feels the need to explain itself.

So here's some of them, with more to come...if I ever decide to post more of them.

Fine

Are you happy now?

Look at this! I think it's

Terrible, don't you? This is

Not a story at all;

It's something sinister,

Manufactured poetry--

Should I mention my mother?

Maybe some painful

Allusions, bring home the

Drama.

It's your fault, you know. I was

Happy telling stories, but

That wasn't good enough for you, was it?

Hydras! There, a mythological allusion,

To show I'm classy

Well read.

Keep the punctuation sparse,

Use it sparingly, space it out

Over several lines so that people don't

Know how to read it.

There I'm a poet now

Does that make me

An artist?

I've got stories to tell, tales of

The good old days and the

Not so good days and

Boring days but

This will be published

Probably taken seriously

Because you can analyze it

Easily.

Lazy bastards.

Criseyde

Troy burns and she stands on the shore,

Hears the dying,

Watches the smoke claw upward,

Souls on their way to Hades

Or somewhere else.

The ship carries her off

While her lover paces the deck

Impatient to be home

To see where he used to live.

He carries on with the crew,

Knows them all,

And so does she

(Perhaps in more ways

Than one).

She knew it would happen

She is forgotten,

Another trophy

From a war over trophies.

Greece is strange to her

The language is not her own

And the food's not her own

And her home is not her own

But his,

Even though he doesn't go there

Anymore.

It does not bother her.

She smiles in crowds,

She walks through parties

Wearing her mask,

The face she shows the world.

And when the parties are over

She goes home (but home was

Destroyed a long time ago)

And she sits regretting

In the dark

With shades

For company.

Criseyde

You've seen her in class,

Proud at her desk,

Back straight, eyes forward,

Viewing the world

With detached air.

She doesn't say much, nor does she

Seem to be paying attention;

Paying attention is for the

Smart or the stupid

(Depending on who you ask).

In the diners she is

Surrounded by people, always

Smiling, comfortable, collected.

The others walk by

And she smirks

Or says nothing

Or says something

But it's clear they are not the

Same as she.

She's better,

Or worse,

Even though she tries to be

The same.

And when she goes home

(Wherever home is (whatever

Home is)) she goes to

Her room and she

Tries to remember who

She really is

Before the loneliness hits

And she's got to

Ride it out

Like a wave

Or an earthquake

Or a strong wind,

A sinking,

Dipping dance that

Leaves her

Spinning around

Inside her own head

Behind the masks

She can't take off anymore,

Not even when she's alone,

In the dark

With shades for company.