time and light unfolding
in looking over my opus, i realize
this is not my beautiful life.
why do i not write about mists
and visits, the comedies of grandkids,
lovely flowers, the beauteous folds
of a sunset?
is my life actually as bleak as i
write it? is my outlook so cynical
the single wonder left is
i still live?
individual memories tend toward
pain. mine i mean. but my overall
feeling at this stage of life is how much
i've been blessed/cursed. so Job of me.
reading over old writing because i thought
well they've been in my house, crowing
a superior caw, on paper. t
they must be worthy of re examination.
all i can say is got to 13 and despaired of finding any less cringeworthy in the rest of the mess. yes,
i read it all, much of it double and triple times bc that's how i printed them. to read at open mic. and
triple cringe, people, i have indeed read them at open mics. no wonder i'm given wide berth.
hugs and love yous can't breach the writer's chasm. i think it may be my own fear of stealing their lives, write them as if they are my own so i distance. i have been her kind.
because i wrote
so much of my daughter.
i love her very much
but she has decoded genetics
from mommy's games, that's
only mine for blame. i have to be ok
with that. i was not, apparently,
a good mom. whatever she
gives me now must be enough.
the writing was only therapy.
she says i was abusive and negligent.
not in so many words. just the way
we can't understand each other
at all. to not write that out
on a message board must show
some learned restraint?
lol o blogger you are so funneeeee.
she lives by fb. i love her. hold my tongue.
Time line. falling off the edge of a page, do you
really go back and look at the fb presence
of your ft friends, just to see what they been up to?
what will you speak of if ever again you meet? what news
odyseus, from the odessy? it's all captured
like writers have been trying to do for eons.
this is the new collective memory.
(just remembered a trick for authoritative voicing:. when a question poses
itself, turn it into a statement .)
*(*(*
there is a man here, again,
a new one shares my bed.
i wish we had met 30 years ago
before either had lives. he loves me
as i have always wanted
my lovers to love. do i
say that every time?
he seems utterly enchanted.
what spells weave subconsciously?
we were speaking of the sub, found
another disagreement. the autodidact
wanted the expert so they both
googled. by default.
she wants the next start up searcher
he likes semi- verifiable information.
they agree. cited resources are truer
than anecdote mathmaticly. sometimes
she is he and he is i.
*
clouds can be considered fungible
because of robust fuzzizity
accounted for in the specs.
i think we could say the same for animals.
we are all paper cardboard cutouts
a bit more substantial than internet avatars
until bu bu waaaAAAHHhhha
the matrix. i referenced that so much
nostalgia can't begin to describe it.
the clouds outside are girding for a storm
and i need direct contact with real life photons.
*
my love is a hoarder his love
for recycling taken a twist
since the bank repo. of course
i knew there'd have to be
a twist or the bottle wouldn't open.
inside is pain free medication
dosage uncertain. outside is
a bit stressed and crowded
a li'l bouncing off the backboards.
a bit o crazy scientist, a match
for a crazy poet. like jigsawed.
we will be the ones who
did nothing, lived and died
neutrinos caught in a crossfire.
that's ok with me, specially
after looking at that crap i wrote
the last ten years. but for him
it's hard. everything came
too easy: sun, rain, corn fed dreams
multiplied by the midwest middle class
why can't you get a job, o my phD son
asks daddy and the son is perplexed
bewildered, baffled by a tornado
he didn't see coming. and damn
how easy is that? caught in my own
whirlwind i can tell you, line of sight
is rather limited....life just gets away
and suddenly you're
i can't decide whether to say old
or 50. it amounts to the same thing.
the body betrays for real here.
you understand death as immanent
i guess that's why generals have no probs
sending young men off to war.
*(((
my life has been filled with beauty.
i think the pain has been equalled
in volume if not mass. beauty like clouds
sailing swift as a sunfish
on the blue jersey shore or
the way you look at me, tonight.
this is not my beautiful life.
why do i not write about mists
and visits, the comedies of grandkids,
lovely flowers, the beauteous folds
of a sunset?
is my life actually as bleak as i
write it? is my outlook so cynical
the single wonder left is
i still live?
individual memories tend toward
pain. mine i mean. but my overall
feeling at this stage of life is how much
i've been blessed/cursed. so Job of me.
reading over old writing because i thought
well they've been in my house, crowing
a superior caw, on paper. t
they must be worthy of re examination.
all i can say is got to 13 and despaired of finding any less cringeworthy in the rest of the mess. yes,
i read it all, much of it double and triple times bc that's how i printed them. to read at open mic. and
triple cringe, people, i have indeed read them at open mics. no wonder i'm given wide berth.
hugs and love yous can't breach the writer's chasm. i think it may be my own fear of stealing their lives, write them as if they are my own so i distance. i have been her kind.
because i wrote
so much of my daughter.
i love her very much
but she has decoded genetics
from mommy's games, that's
only mine for blame. i have to be ok
with that. i was not, apparently,
a good mom. whatever she
gives me now must be enough.
the writing was only therapy.
she says i was abusive and negligent.
not in so many words. just the way
we can't understand each other
at all. to not write that out
on a message board must show
some learned restraint?
lol o blogger you are so funneeeee.
she lives by fb. i love her. hold my tongue.
Time line. falling off the edge of a page, do you
really go back and look at the fb presence
of your ft friends, just to see what they been up to?
what will you speak of if ever again you meet? what news
odyseus, from the odessy? it's all captured
like writers have been trying to do for eons.
this is the new collective memory.
(just remembered a trick for authoritative voicing:. when a question poses
itself, turn it into a statement .)
*(*(*
there is a man here, again,
a new one shares my bed.
i wish we had met 30 years ago
before either had lives. he loves me
as i have always wanted
my lovers to love. do i
say that every time?
he seems utterly enchanted.
what spells weave subconsciously?
we were speaking of the sub, found
another disagreement. the autodidact
wanted the expert so they both
googled. by default.
she wants the next start up searcher
he likes semi- verifiable information.
they agree. cited resources are truer
than anecdote mathmaticly. sometimes
she is he and he is i.
*
clouds can be considered fungible
because of robust fuzzizity
accounted for in the specs.
i think we could say the same for animals.
we are all paper cardboard cutouts
a bit more substantial than internet avatars
until bu bu waaaAAAHHhhha
the matrix. i referenced that so much
nostalgia can't begin to describe it.
the clouds outside are girding for a storm
and i need direct contact with real life photons.
*
my love is a hoarder his love
for recycling taken a twist
since the bank repo. of course
i knew there'd have to be
a twist or the bottle wouldn't open.
inside is pain free medication
dosage uncertain. outside is
a bit stressed and crowded
a li'l bouncing off the backboards.
a bit o crazy scientist, a match
for a crazy poet. like jigsawed.
we will be the ones who
did nothing, lived and died
neutrinos caught in a crossfire.
that's ok with me, specially
after looking at that crap i wrote
the last ten years. but for him
it's hard. everything came
too easy: sun, rain, corn fed dreams
multiplied by the midwest middle class
why can't you get a job, o my phD son
asks daddy and the son is perplexed
bewildered, baffled by a tornado
he didn't see coming. and damn
how easy is that? caught in my own
whirlwind i can tell you, line of sight
is rather limited....life just gets away
and suddenly you're
i can't decide whether to say old
or 50. it amounts to the same thing.
the body betrays for real here.
you understand death as immanent
i guess that's why generals have no probs
sending young men off to war.
*(((
my life has been filled with beauty.
i think the pain has been equalled
in volume if not mass. beauty like clouds
sailing swift as a sunfish
on the blue jersey shore or
the way you look at me, tonight.
posted by hiccup at 2:01 PM
3 Comments:
enjoyed this...
i happened to be listening to some of my old archives recently, and came across a recording of finch, at my house during a christmas party, reading one of your poems, before we all met, back in the early days of the boards - it was surprising and awesome to hear, i think it was your reactions to a harold pinter essay or something - anyway, it was great, and wonderfully-read by jenn, too - maybe you'd like it - or maybe you'd hate it cause it was your writing - and maybe you can have your ambiguous cake and eat it too by making declarations out of questions through abuse of the word "maybe"
well, i got a comment through the first try! it usually takes me a few runs through the captcha filter... i wonder if captcha fucking killed blogger, because comments became a pain in the ass - in which cause it's really spammers who killed blogger, just as they've polluted every other surface around
maybe is good declaration cuz isn't anything a maybe? you can't be wrong!
i hate the capchas.damn you spammers!
if only blog could keep them off. they found me a while back so i was forced into this security model of prove you are human. even i have to use it. which makes answering a pain. good to see you even so.
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