It’s been one of those days when everyone seems to be having a rough time of it, except for me.
Maybe this will help lighten the mood.
What are we made of?
What is this puttylike substance?
Doesn’t anybody notice
We are ridiculous.
All stretchy faces and brightly colored insides
With two bright eyeballs in front
A wide mouth below
And the nose!
An absurd protuberance
Set far outward
So you can stick your shelf nose right over stuff
And vacuum up smells.
We’re not God’s finest work.
We’re awkward creations.
We’re the hairless cats of primates.
When excited, we bray laughter.
When we age our teeth fall out, our skin gets baggy.
We wallop each other with closed fists
And break our silly noses
Right across our stretchy faces.
Our trunks split into limbs split into digits
Which splay and wiggle and toy with things
Which pick and slap and pop zits.
Our toes are stubby.
And we do stub them,
Sometimes we break them repeatedly,
Through stubbing alone.
Sometimes they break
Because we collided with another clumsy person
Who accidentally landed on them.
Sometimes we break them
Because we were moving a couch,
Filling a nest with worthless treasures
We found and attached value to,
Which we then dropped on our foot.
This is kind of silly. I barely remember writing it.
Life is a cold flowing
Concatenation of lifestyle choices.
We mindlessly move
In the direction
In which we were pointed.
Is there more?
We can feel the wind
We can see the green
We can laugh
We can chew
We can do anything.
There is hot tea
And warm cats
And somebody to fill your water bottle.
There are toilets to pee in
Women to love
Men to admire
And creepy dolls to burn.
There are books to read
Books to write
But maybe I won’t start tonight.
Just me, not taking poetry seriously again.
Did you put that
Clown on me
Gross get it off get it off
Who’s the joker who got the clown off.
I’m leaving this party
It’s getting freaky
In ways that I can’t handle.
Special Agent Foster
Liked lemon cookies
And coffee with coke
And toothpaste in her orange juice
And chocolate with Country Time
And Tang with only a little water so it was a sludge
She died a tragic death too soon
From being just a nasty lady
When I run out of poetry I just start posting my crazed ramblings.
My personal rule is, if I want to post it, it’s probably well written, and worth posting. If I don’t want to post it, it’s probably true, and worth posting. If it leaves no impression in my mind, it’s probably trash.
So. Here we go again!!
Give me grace
I had it briefly
I had it for six months, twelve months, not enough months
I want it for a lifetime
I thirst for it
Sweet on the lips and the soul
Fresh and cleansing.
I don’t want to forget that happiness
I know how to be happy
It’s an art
A difficult practice and an art
It can be done.
We are fools
We can be worse
We can be better.
My art is improving
I’m starting to see things I like here and there
I’ll never be like my idols
But I can be someone I could enjoy reading.
I need a break
From my own neurosis
It can be done
I’ve done it before
I can do it again.
When the trees are glossed in ice
and the sun glances through them with rising fire
They bat the light back and forth, a plaything
And I think
AAAAAAAAAAA THE TREES ARE SPARKLY!!!
Sorry. Poetry is just too grandiose, my brain can’t go there when all that’s running through my tiny mind are oh my fucking god the trees are sparkly, sparkles sparkles sparkles. I’ve regressed. Just in typing this, I’ve keyboard smashed so much that I accidentally opened up a bunch of weird windows for which I didn’t know there were keyboard hotkeys, like an HTML debugger. If it’s not what the sparkles have done to my brain, it’s what the cold has done to my fingers.
Here’s something random. My boyfriend writes songs for fun. Every once in a while I’ll sing one of his songs for him. Hopefully these blues will gently bring us all back down from the sparkle high.