"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Thursday, March 31, 2011

National Poetry Month!

April (which starts tomorrow, btw - is this year speeding by or what?) is National Poetry Month, and some crazy folks decided it would be a good idea to issue a challenge to writers everywhere. The challenge? Write a poem every day for the whole month.

Here's the deal: people give them ideas for daily prompts. Then, each day, they provide the prompt, to which you provide the poem. I've become very excited about this very quickly, so I pretty much have to follow through at this point.

Here goes nothin'.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

In need of repair

It had always been a fight, and the end was no different. But when the dust settled, it wasn't his bruised sense of pride that he was worried about. The half-dizzy haze that had devoured his thoughts was ruptured by a single question:

"How can I fix this?"

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Local Natives, Who Knows Who Cares

Thursday, March 24, 2011

The worst part

When the bus driver started making angry hand gestures at no one in particular, I knew I had made the wrong - albeit interesting - choice of transportation. Interesting in that I didn't expect to have the last four months of my life flash before my eyes today.

I think the worst part of it might have been not seeing it coming. You probably could have called what happened next from a mile away. You were always a little prescient about things. I figured it was just good instincts, or like those gut feelings Han Solo gets. You told me you got one of those feelings the first time I held your hand, but you never explained what that meant. I'm not sure you knew at the time, and sometimes I really wish you had.

I think the worst part of it might have been when the windows shattered. You never really think about how bad an idea it is to be surrounded by huge panes of glass until you're being pelted and punctured by the shards. I didn't hear myself cry out in pain, but whether it was because of the impact with the road or the airport tarmac-worthy decibel level, I'm not sure.

I think the worst part of it might have been when I started wondering if you'd seen the end coming the whole time. I think you had a glass of wine in your hand. I can't remember whether it was empty or full, but I do remember smelling the rest of the bottle on your breath. I always hated when you drank to ease your tension. I thought it was a sign of weakness, although I never told you that in such a direct manner.

I think the worst part of it might have been the empty, cackling screech of metal as the momentum of 65-mile-per-hour travel carried us sideways down the highway. It was like listening to you scream at me the first time we fought. I wanted so badly to study the asphalt, find some imperfections greater than my own, but I could already feel the sparks burning my neck.

I think the worst part of it might have been when it was going so well that I took it for granted. The priest sought to satisfy us both, the atheist and the Roman Catholic, and suggested "a civil union, and then we'll sprinkle in some Jesus." I remember you told me you couldn't be married by a man who treated your savior like a salad topping, and I remember that your insistence only made me laugh harder. I guess you weren't feeling prescient after that, or perhaps you just didn't like what your instincts were telling you.

I think the worst part of it might have been the impact. I had never once questioned my faith, but in that moment when the median first sent concrete-heavy tremors through the frame of the bus and up the back of my seat, I wondered whether this would be a good time to do so. I wondered if it would be worth it. I wondered if maybe a last-second conversion could send me to the afterlife, where I might wait for you at the gates, sitting cross-legged, my hopefully sad stare trained at the space between the wrought-iron spokes.

I think the worst part of it might have been the impact. It was like that pressurized feeling I'd had in my chest before, but now, 14 carats of white gold felt like the heaviest thing to ever drop into the palm of my hand. The reverberations hurried up my arm and devoured my sense of hearing, turning my brain into a rogue guitar string, and the only words I heard were "paperwork" and "sorry."

It was the impact. The worst part was definitely the impact.

Some Quick Links to entertain you for the upcoming weekend:

I posted a new issue of 50 to 1 last weekend, and if you haven't read it yet, I recommend it - some excellent pieces.

xTx kicks ass, as usual, in this untitled post.

Glen is having a giveaway! Go! Win things!

I just discovered Kerry's blog (thank you DJ) but damn...she's good.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Pharoahe Monch (feat. Jean Grae & Royce da 5'9"), Assassins

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Trust me, it's plenty "life affirming"

It's not consequences that scare me - finality never has - but the act itself, the idea of ranking one option above another, even for a moment. So here I sit, immobilized by inner conflict...

I just can't decide whether or not to eat this entire sleeve of Girl Scout cookies.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Dodos, Fools