Monday
truly never so worklocked that in my wake lay more scratched redacts than poetry, but there it is and here this is and I'm not sure the it will count but it's the best I can do at 2am and 2am's the best I can do at honesty and, honestly, I don't know how not to say all of this so I try not to say very much at all-
Wednesday
Saturday
Thursday
I am wrapped in my childhood comforter,
and it is enough around me to keep off cold through cracks a century coming, a century like chimes pealing, peeling off, years falling away like leaves dropped and it’s still clingy autumn here:
but I’m building walls of books, too,
because in my bed they help to keep of the cold and for all its warmth Dixie sure has biting nights that even three years north of the Mason-Dixon have not yet taught me to love, and the books are enough, enough enough:
but I’m wooling my mind with words,
tangled like click, click, click I never learned to knit properly so I really should put these needles aside and just crochet, but it’s diverting to knot phrases in unfamiliar ways and everything here is so familiar that it’s a comfort, really, so I need these words to unwind me:
but walking these roads I feel at home,
in place, in peace, embraced, and sure as ever that my autumns will drop on red clay like it doesn’t matter how fertile the soil is I’ll grow here, dammit, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be no other words I’d rather weave no, no nothing else I’d rather read no, no no way else I’d rather sleep:
but these are not my thoughts,
my thoughts are very different.
and it is enough around me to keep off cold through cracks a century coming, a century like chimes pealing, peeling off, years falling away like leaves dropped and it’s still clingy autumn here:
but I’m building walls of books, too,
because in my bed they help to keep of the cold and for all its warmth Dixie sure has biting nights that even three years north of the Mason-Dixon have not yet taught me to love, and the books are enough, enough enough:
but I’m wooling my mind with words,
tangled like click, click, click I never learned to knit properly so I really should put these needles aside and just crochet, but it’s diverting to knot phrases in unfamiliar ways and everything here is so familiar that it’s a comfort, really, so I need these words to unwind me:
but walking these roads I feel at home,
in place, in peace, embraced, and sure as ever that my autumns will drop on red clay like it doesn’t matter how fertile the soil is I’ll grow here, dammit, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be no other words I’d rather weave no, no nothing else I’d rather read no, no no way else I’d rather sleep:
but these are not my thoughts,
my thoughts are very different.
Saturday
Friday
I don't think I
"And I know, and you know too
that what this is is bad, bad news."
---She and Him, more or less
...but...
...but...
...but...
What I don't do do want don't dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think don't think daren't think think anyway do want don't want do want, don't want don't do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do: your hair through my fingers and your neck on my cheek and head-spinning scent of you and I know what makes you laugh when you don't feel like laughing and you let me know when you don't feel like laughing because I can trace the weave of your speech-spinning hands and I've felt your fingertips on my palm and I've known the stretch and shrug of your shoulders and know how they hunch when you feel heavy and how to hold you to help shoulder the weight and you share my weight and everything's lighter when we're together, even the serious things, so sometimes we get mixed up and take the silly things seriously and the the serious things sillily and sometimes we're simply silent and stare into one another and this used to terrify me about you because I have walls for everyone but you- everyone but you, but I never had walls for you because something there is that doesn't love a wall that's for you so I'm for you and you are the spring and the mischief in me and when we meet to walk the line it isn't to heave stones or even sighs because there's nothing between us but what we want there and what we want there is shared and what we do is like like two-wise pastries and identical disinterests and word trades which sound nonsensical because we have eyes and minds in common enough to not need breathe long explanations of being so it's so easy to be honest and this used to terrify me, too, but when walking side-by-side feels more intimate than any love I've made then how could I not...
And it would be easier if you were a stranger or I could forget all your sweet smiles, all the time passing, the peace, the heat, the pain, and all those long nights where our words were our freedom, but I can't unknow don't want to unknow don't do do want dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think daren't do do want do want, don't want to not do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do.
that what this is is bad, bad news."
---She and Him, more or less
...but...
...but...
...but...
What I don't do do want don't dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think don't think daren't think think anyway do want don't want do want, don't want don't do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do: your hair through my fingers and your neck on my cheek and head-spinning scent of you and I know what makes you laugh when you don't feel like laughing and you let me know when you don't feel like laughing because I can trace the weave of your speech-spinning hands and I've felt your fingertips on my palm and I've known the stretch and shrug of your shoulders and know how they hunch when you feel heavy and how to hold you to help shoulder the weight and you share my weight and everything's lighter when we're together, even the serious things, so sometimes we get mixed up and take the silly things seriously and the the serious things sillily and sometimes we're simply silent and stare into one another and this used to terrify me about you because I have walls for everyone but you- everyone but you, but I never had walls for you because something there is that doesn't love a wall that's for you so I'm for you and you are the spring and the mischief in me and when we meet to walk the line it isn't to heave stones or even sighs because there's nothing between us but what we want there and what we want there is shared and what we do is like like two-wise pastries and identical disinterests and word trades which sound nonsensical because we have eyes and minds in common enough to not need breathe long explanations of being so it's so easy to be honest and this used to terrify me, too, but when walking side-by-side feels more intimate than any love I've made then how could I not...
And it would be easier if you were a stranger or I could forget all your sweet smiles, all the time passing, the peace, the heat, the pain, and all those long nights where our words were our freedom, but I can't unknow don't want to unknow don't do do want dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think daren't do do want do want, don't want to not do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do.
Wednesday
Friday
Aerated banana cohabitation!
Dystopian egregy flocculation!
Gestaltesque hurrumphs iterate joshingly,
knotting liturgical mandates noshingly.
Oxymoronic pretenses quixotic
(For context, see Oct. 29, twent'leven)
relinquish semblance for tacit uknowits.
Vanguard withholding xenagogues yearningly.
Zetetic zitella zenithing, el fin.
Dystopian egregy flocculation!
Gestaltesque hurrumphs iterate joshingly,
knotting liturgical mandates noshingly.
Oxymoronic pretenses quixotic
(For context, see Oct. 29, twent'leven)
relinquish semblance for tacit uknowits.
Vanguard withholding xenagogues yearningly.
Zetetic zitella zenithing, el fin.
Saturday
Epistle I: To DDS, Of Endive
Nothing so foul as what Tonight you serve,
This vile Vegetable, horrid Hor D'oeuvre,
Palatable when neither hot nor cold,
Ne'er by my Words nor Deeds to be extoll'd.
How many Students pass it up each day,
How many more lack Sense to stay away?
Alongside Fruitstuffs, here, tender and sweet,
Of vibrant Colours, of Nutr'ents replete.
Here Yogurts, with Texture smoothe and creamy,
And there Broccoli, fresh and steamy.
Let them eat Cake, and Steak, and greas'd 'Taters,
Pizza, Burgers, Hot Dogs, Fries, Tomaters.
Or Herbavores may choose such lighter Fare,
As MaPo Tofu, Peas, and roasted Pear,
With sim'ring Sauces and deft Hand prepar'd;
Whether the Student's veg- or Carnivore,
'Longside these Options Endive is abhorr'd.
Why then the Time, Space, and Energy waste,
To present this Plant so awry of Taste,
That it pleases nei'er Masses nor Tongue,
With its Flavor not unlike old horse Dung.
Carrots, better endow'd with Vit'min A,
More often are consum'd, less thrown away,
Agree as Sides to Entrees a-plenty,
As stir-fried Slices and in Salads minty,
Even when smothered with a greasy Paste,
Sugared, buttered, spic'd they're not a Waste:
Because it's so that if the Base is good,
Culinary Abuse may be withstood.
But "good" does not these endive Leaves describe,
Thus cannot Sugar, Butter, Spice ascribe,
Any of their sundry Qual'ties pleasing;
Endive is, in short, a waste of Seas'ning.
How soft the the Flavor! fresh Leaves of Spinach,
The tender Tufts of foliate Plummage:
To me, Callista, prove their own fine Worth,
By extracting such Iron from the Earth,
As can richen Blood with Hemoglobin,
Without which I would wain weak and mopin'.
All Eyes may see the Change within me rise,
With Blood that's rich, my Laughter soars---it flies.
Sure, Endive boasts large amounts of Fiber,
Vitamins E, C, K and other dire
Nutr'ents which would help to sustain its Host,
But that matters little, for it's so gross.
Loath'd Endive, that odious Bane of the salad Bar,
Offends my palate---Aye, it goes too far!
Worse still when served up sickly-yellow, hot,
All limp, and wet, and surely soon to rot.
Students, of sound and stable Judgement, know,
'Tis not worth eating, and so they forego;
Unhappy those who accident'ly take,
Even the smallest Serving on their Plates,
For a Bite once taken in, once chew'ed,
Cannot in polite Company be spew'ed,
Their Tongues may curl, their Lips may well go numb,
But to the Urge to wretch they can't succumb:
For Grace mandates, Decorum straight commands,
That those refin'd, Unpleasantness withstand;
And those refin'd know there's naught else more crude,
Than to at a Table expel one's Food.
Then there are poor Souls taught to clean their Plates,
Who eat all their food, no matter how base;
For these poor Souls I offer up a Pray'r,
And distract myself so as not to stare,
At their Misfortune, at their painful Plight,
As they gulp down each and eve'ry Bite.
Why then Surprise when they loudly declare,
That foco Food they shall henceforth foreswear?
Why pique our Buds with Food that Pleasure brings?
If only to then to dish out Food that stings:
Now deep in our bowels Complaints are mounting,
Which we won't (politely) be recounting.
Conscience should grip you, you should feel Remorse;
But you do not---you're DDS of course.
You value feedback from student Patrons,
Only when receiv'd in a Form that burns.
Or, rather, recycles (#green Init'tive),
Well, here's my Feedback: --insert expletive--,
Endive disgusts, it is not fit to serve,
Whoever does so has a lot of Nerve;
Endive revolts, so bitter and so foul,
Prolong'd Exposure leads to perm'nant Scowl.
We all reject this unfit edible,
And demand Meals more wholesome, credible.
The Tribe has spoken, our Edict is clear:
Besmirched Endive is not welcome here!
This vile Vegetable, horrid Hor D'oeuvre,
Palatable when neither hot nor cold,
Ne'er by my Words nor Deeds to be extoll'd.
How many Students pass it up each day,
How many more lack Sense to stay away?
Alongside Fruitstuffs, here, tender and sweet,
Of vibrant Colours, of Nutr'ents replete.
Here Yogurts, with Texture smoothe and creamy,
And there Broccoli, fresh and steamy.
Let them eat Cake, and Steak, and greas'd 'Taters,
Pizza, Burgers, Hot Dogs, Fries, Tomaters.
Or Herbavores may choose such lighter Fare,
As MaPo Tofu, Peas, and roasted Pear,
With sim'ring Sauces and deft Hand prepar'd;
Whether the Student's veg- or Carnivore,
'Longside these Options Endive is abhorr'd.
Why then the Time, Space, and Energy waste,
To present this Plant so awry of Taste,
That it pleases nei'er Masses nor Tongue,
With its Flavor not unlike old horse Dung.
Carrots, better endow'd with Vit'min A,
More often are consum'd, less thrown away,
Agree as Sides to Entrees a-plenty,
As stir-fried Slices and in Salads minty,
Even when smothered with a greasy Paste,
Sugared, buttered, spic'd they're not a Waste:
Because it's so that if the Base is good,
Culinary Abuse may be withstood.
But "good" does not these endive Leaves describe,
Thus cannot Sugar, Butter, Spice ascribe,
Any of their sundry Qual'ties pleasing;
Endive is, in short, a waste of Seas'ning.
How soft the the Flavor! fresh Leaves of Spinach,
The tender Tufts of foliate Plummage:
To me, Callista, prove their own fine Worth,
By extracting such Iron from the Earth,
As can richen Blood with Hemoglobin,
Without which I would wain weak and mopin'.
All Eyes may see the Change within me rise,
With Blood that's rich, my Laughter soars---it flies.
Sure, Endive boasts large amounts of Fiber,
Vitamins E, C, K and other dire
Nutr'ents which would help to sustain its Host,
But that matters little, for it's so gross.
Loath'd Endive, that odious Bane of the salad Bar,
Offends my palate---Aye, it goes too far!
Worse still when served up sickly-yellow, hot,
All limp, and wet, and surely soon to rot.
Students, of sound and stable Judgement, know,
'Tis not worth eating, and so they forego;
Unhappy those who accident'ly take,
Even the smallest Serving on their Plates,
For a Bite once taken in, once chew'ed,
Cannot in polite Company be spew'ed,
Their Tongues may curl, their Lips may well go numb,
But to the Urge to wretch they can't succumb:
For Grace mandates, Decorum straight commands,
That those refin'd, Unpleasantness withstand;
And those refin'd know there's naught else more crude,
Than to at a Table expel one's Food.
Then there are poor Souls taught to clean their Plates,
Who eat all their food, no matter how base;
For these poor Souls I offer up a Pray'r,
And distract myself so as not to stare,
At their Misfortune, at their painful Plight,
As they gulp down each and eve'ry Bite.
Why then Surprise when they loudly declare,
That foco Food they shall henceforth foreswear?
Why pique our Buds with Food that Pleasure brings?
If only to then to dish out Food that stings:
Now deep in our bowels Complaints are mounting,
Which we won't (politely) be recounting.
Conscience should grip you, you should feel Remorse;
But you do not---you're DDS of course.
You value feedback from student Patrons,
Only when receiv'd in a Form that burns.
Or, rather, recycles (#green Init'tive),
Well, here's my Feedback: --insert expletive--,
Endive disgusts, it is not fit to serve,
Whoever does so has a lot of Nerve;
Endive revolts, so bitter and so foul,
Prolong'd Exposure leads to perm'nant Scowl.
We all reject this unfit edible,
And demand Meals more wholesome, credible.
The Tribe has spoken, our Edict is clear:
Besmirched Endive is not welcome here!
Tuesday
Untitled II
Not long like standing three paused-steps outside of your door or long like the catch between breaths that could cascade speech-ways or sigh-ways or impishly my-ways or long like the decades (I swear) we've been lip-locked while civilizations bloomed and burned with rivelets and rust and not even the Romans ruled breadths and depths like those wrapped in our embrace because we sweat for that which we can't touch and touch anyways with hands like oil on skin that is more beautiful than any marble broken into idea(l?)s and write our own religion with strokes of trust and flourishes of why the hell not look like fools and make mistakes and enjoy creating and cleaning up our own messes with these hands cleansed holy by heart to hip to hunger-shudders of shared dominion of bodies we'll only have for a moment and not long like that moment no not long at all.
Saturday
Untitled I
I would like to whisper to you how you take my breath and fuel my pulse with something more elemental than O2 that flushes my cheeks and tingles my toes and sends my head swimming around and around and around in an amaranthine-ethereal-nonlingual slow-mo samba like cheeks brushing and words touching me where I've never even touched myself and I wear them like garments because at your hands I feel beautiful and at your thought I could flush aching winter with one thousand summers laid end to end like the sun wouldn't set unless we wanted and the stars are things that we can toss into one another's hair like smiles that we bounce from lip to lip and maybe if I hiss my whisper sweetly enough I can tickle your ear and ring your laugh.
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