It seems like my poetry has taken a graceful nosedive into a pile of shit these past few weeks; back in october and november i was cranking out what i thought was some pretty stellar stuff. For some reason, though, it's just not coming to me as well. Sometimes these things happen, though, and one can't explain them nor force the opposite - good writing - to happen. It more or less just blasts out of nowhere for me. However, to be true, I was writing more often than as well, whereas lately i've been pulled away in other directions, namely work and the trips to SLC and Guatemala. Perhaps i've just been out of practice. Alas, either way, this latest piece is an attempt to jump-start another run of writing, and with much luck i'll be able to start cranking pieces out on a more regular basis.

For now, though, a nice, long, steamy shower sounds awfully pleasant, so I think i'll take advantage of my water heater (a great thing to own, i've come to realise since Guatemala) and go shower like it's going out of style. Have a pleasant night, reader, and dream sweetly.

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easier done than said

2/1/05

there’s this blank material lust
filling me tonight
and, oh, it sounds like a ghost town
a hollow whistlenote of the simple folk
that speaks of their wholesome moments –
fried-chicken talk shows
and heartwarming malt-liquor rodeos –
white trash comfort foods
to take our minds
off the good
things in life
like ejaculating words hither and yon
in a lyrical blast
deprived
of
sleep
winding around the sky like a silken thread
and moon like the
smallest
of
smiles
lone keeper of the watch

realization is pain, the chainsaw carve
and evangelizing is worse
so let’s fuck it all and fire up the Weber
raise our cans and toast to the darkness
that comfortable shroud before our eyes
anchor to the past
‘cause in those dusky trailer courts
we spread the lies
white and hot as smoke
fresh from the grill

but I struggle to light the coals –
the closer the match gets, every time
I remember!
and it slows, fingers roasting
by a tiny fire
creeping ever higher up
the little wooden stick

in this empty village of hopes shattered
on the edge of ignorance I’m caught
with not a hint of bliss nor smoke to cloud
just the light I can’t forget