Poem

O drunk people!
     Where would we be without you?
Our photo albums,
      No longer filled with bad decisions.
And all our teenagers, living without shame.
      Small town people,
At home playing board games! 

Today

Listening to Float On by Modest Mouse. Really Happy. Everything Capitalized Inexplicably. Oh, and now Skinny Love by Bon Iver. Thank you, Pandora. Couldn't you say that music might have been in that very box? It might be hard to think of a world without music, but not any harder than thinking of a world without disease, pain, death. Eventually, humanist as can be, maybe those will be story-book words, once-upon-a-time phrases. Living in the domain of fantasy. "Come on skinny love," this song is so nice.

Anyway, I wrote an article for my university newspaper, more of a letter to the editor to the editor. I'm going to be late to my Intro to Philosophy class I wish I didn't have to take but I have to because it is required. I love philosophy though, I'm just upset because I already three philosophy courses under my belt; no one told me that 1301 was required.

The song is over, gotta go...

Something from a long stream-of-conscious-esque thing that I wrote in a notebook...

Sex and sex and sex and sex and,
It was oh so just too much, too easy,
I closed my eyes and made you do hand-stands,
I saw your eyes open but not see me.

Slow down so now, slow now, slow down slown ow,
so sad, retreat to your evening gown,
so not even God can remember now,
burn all the sound, the time, the tapes, the town!

And so, know so, done so, bland so, and so,
Keep me close to keep me closest to you,
And please then teach me to treat you just so,
'til hell heaven, blue earth, burnt earth, all through.

Close me like a couplet if you please it,
And hold me up so all eye can see it.

Above is a metrically-perfect Shakespearean sonnet. I wrote this and then forgot about it. Isn't that wyrd?
Anyway, the efef and gg parts are additions. Probably shouldn't have told you that; now you'll probably remember them as being more awkward and out of rhythm, even if you didn't think that initially.

I am kind of freaked out. I wrote in iambic pentameter, on accident, while presumably half-conscious...

O Catherine!

I love you, Catherine;

You’re just a girl.

I’d love you, Catherine,

But there’s the world.

To worry me,

Carry me,

Up on shoulders of giants,

I’ll never be!

And my passions,

They’ll just wait.

Oh my passions,

Read my face.

Written for a character in The Fountainhead. Catherine, of course. Or Peter Keating? I read this book when I was much younger. Please be kind.

Poetry

You are poetry that lasts.

Not a horse, running,

Poetry in motion.

Or Shakespeare,

Poetry in (Stratford upon) Avon.

Poetry I can feel,

Still, in a dance.

You are the place

Where all the time went,

And all the lines came hence!

Under eyes and through

Names made and

Empires lost.

Love’s the game,

Ne’ermind the cost! 

My Obsession with Ether, et. her.

The fullness of space!

Like emptied time,

Full of moon’s interruption:

“I already said it once!”

                                            

But far too many,

I just need one!

Too distinct,

I’d like an amalgam!


October 12: I now have a bad habit of picking two lone stanzas I've written and deciding that they go together. I put a line between them.