somedays

I am unsure whether I am Livor dead. 

the fury

v. is casket at both ends burning. 

restless

v. is sleepy but full of nightmares, still awake, restless for the storms and the end of waiting. 

for what it is

 

I’m becoming a statistic. AquaNet is the glue holding it all together.  I miss listening to MTVJams in the morning, first thing when I wake up.  I look at the coffee pot on the counter and wonder how many days old it is.  I decide to drink it right from the pot. 

 I’ve always been the kind of person who sees the world for what it is rather than what it can be.  Dreamers help balance me out.

summer 2006

I’m not a fucking nun; I happen to like kool-aid flavored chapstick; ordering “the vegetable flavored thing”  on Main St. with 2 of my favs; "that shirt reminds me of a funeral..."; like bananas in the fridge, I’m learning, red, white, yellow, “be my inverse,” every 7 seconds btwn lightning and thunder equals 1 mile, light travels faster than sound; "how long can you tread water?"; GW's first first call, having "terrible chest pains," crying wolf, going vert, RIP.   

poem perceptive on pressure, perfection & parents

How my mind works:

Overwhelming contemplations and concerns over the future recently,
anxiety over present perfection to prepare for future legacy:
I’ve got some big shoes waiting in my closet (amongst the skeleton collection),
for that earth shattering day or night
when I become an orphan,
when I become the legacy,
when I become the only.

Tonight, reading an old New York Times article:
A statistic startled me,
the number required me to first check the calendar,
then forced some quick math,
a subtraction reveled the difference,
the difference took my breath away.

U.S.:
Annual Deaths:
Will reach 3 million between the years 2010 & 2040,
when Baby Boomers are expected to take their last breaths.

And in my mind:
(F***).
Today is already 2009.
(we’re all running out of time)
My parents.
(are they Boomers?)
I don’t know.
Dad’s 50^th this year.
add another 50,
(please, god),
year 2059.

No, not Boomers, I guess.
but still, it’s 2009..the time…

The future feels as close as it ever has,
perfection is nevermore near.
pressure builds
until the big boom.

perfection always sounds better before procrastination

I'm writing a 30 page research essay on the currently perceived professional status of funeral directors.

Why is it I always tackle topics of this nature: all real ideas and opinions so few facts and proof.

I must choose these topics because I am trying to prove something.  

Time is running out (a terminal condition) but I'm paralyzed somewhere between perfection and procrastination.   

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard if I were already perfect; perhaps the struggle stems from trying to be something I'm not: perfect. 

endless house

quick found poem, inspired by the title, 

"the endless house"

Is it the house or the home that is endless? 

which seems to go on forever.

House stays put and

home continues on forever even without,

you might be away on an epic journey, 

a coming of age spending spree,

what was the previous generation's road trip, 

is our generation's backpacking through Europe:  everything you think you need on your back,

everything you think you want obtainable with American cash and credit.

Planes & trains, Amsterdam & Rome, hostels and strangers, and you only return when you've run out of funds, 

and upon your return you're expected to be 

less hostile, more worldly, and

totally accepting of your fate: 

you'll work to live to earn and save, 

save for the chance to end the race, 

yearn for an end to the chase, 

an end that looks less like death and 

more like the open road

you once knew that led to this endless house of your dreams. 

Fiction comes calling; tomorrow I answer in poetry

Yesterday I was overcome with this urge to start some fiction of my own. As a rule, I am seriously invested in reality and gravity; perhaps my existential coming-of-age and my vocation of obsequies serve as the pre-requisites for my "serious as a heart attack" tendencies. Within the past few days, I've been tempted to entertain some escapism from my non-fiction life. These temptations have come from two notable sources.

Firstly, Annie Kerr, author of the blog Ink haven, left a comment in which she suggested the development of a story from a line from the posted conversation, "Altered." Annie made no mention of fiction, non- or otherwise, but my mind naturally craved the opportunity to create fiction out of a real-time conversation. Thanks for the comment, Annie. I'll keep it in mind as inspiration for future posts.

Secondly, I came across the New York Times: Paper Cuts article titled "Stray Questions for Thomas Lynch." In this article, Lynch, who has usually produced works of poetry and non-fiction, discusses his recent affair with fiction. Of it, Lynch divulges: "Living in fiction is very seductive—the creation and destruction of characters, the hoops we make to make them jump through en route to their little dénouements—a fetching and terrible enterprise." I think I find this notion particularly intriguing because I am, after all, looking to be seduced. Fictional escapism sounds quite lovely.

Lynch acknowledges his true love: "Poems are the necessary counterbalance: all metaphor and formal language intrigues—the art of subtraction and careful counting—the reading and writing of them are essential practices." He believes in the seduction of fiction and the sobering by poetry. And so I want also to believe.