I really only have time and energy to say that I am still alive. My days have been strings of ups and downs and today happens to be a down that I just can't shake so I'm going to skip the whining or whatever and treat everyone to Rufus Wainwright. (It's a bit abridged but this is the essence of the song)
Oh What A World
Men reading fashion magazines
Oh what a world
It seems we live in
Straight man
Oh what a world
We live in
Why am I always on a plane or a fast train
Oh what a world my parents gave me
Always
Travelin' but not in love
Still I think I'm doin' fine
Wouldn't it be a lovely headline
Life is
Beautiful on a New York Times
Oh what a world my parents gave me
Always
Travelin' but not in love
Still I think I'm doin' fine
Wouldn't it be a lovely headline
Life is
Beautiful
Friday, July 09, 2004
Cracked
Not long before the coiling shouts
shuffled out the hidden screen door
with tails tucked tightly ‘tween
their legs, I cracked an egg
in the rough burlap cuff
of my aged kilt and basted
it in a neat sunny-side-up.
Not long after the runny yolk
popped and slithered ‘round my ankles
like discarded underwear or lonely
tabby cats, the pounding door screened
with a shadow darker than ink, darker
than rock sand or slick, oiled hair.
Not too soon, it blasted stealthily past
the mossy rock wall and narrowly slid
its head into my knee, vicariously
lapping my toes into tingly pins
and pricks.
Too long, it shined the yellow cell
away with a downy adjustment
and an iron fork worked beneath
my skin and peeled it up like a tent,
my golden skin taught ‘neath the prying tines.
Not long now, and the germinating
canvas, watered down like over-iced
lemonade, will snare the gauzy tide
and rip the over-sexed sky into thirds
like a banana peel, taking the screen
but leaving me the door and the shadow’s
ice-bitten shadow.
(I'm stuck with this poem, anyone care to critique or edit it?)
Not long before the coiling shouts
shuffled out the hidden screen door
with tails tucked tightly ‘tween
their legs, I cracked an egg
in the rough burlap cuff
of my aged kilt and basted
it in a neat sunny-side-up.
Not long after the runny yolk
popped and slithered ‘round my ankles
like discarded underwear or lonely
tabby cats, the pounding door screened
with a shadow darker than ink, darker
than rock sand or slick, oiled hair.
Not too soon, it blasted stealthily past
the mossy rock wall and narrowly slid
its head into my knee, vicariously
lapping my toes into tingly pins
and pricks.
Too long, it shined the yellow cell
away with a downy adjustment
and an iron fork worked beneath
my skin and peeled it up like a tent,
my golden skin taught ‘neath the prying tines.
Not long now, and the germinating
canvas, watered down like over-iced
lemonade, will snare the gauzy tide
and rip the over-sexed sky into thirds
like a banana peel, taking the screen
but leaving me the door and the shadow’s
ice-bitten shadow.
(I'm stuck with this poem, anyone care to critique or edit it?)
Thursday, July 08, 2004
I hate computers! I just wrote a great witty post with all the nitty gritty dirt of my entire life and the entire lives of several other people including your own, probably, and it's gone! GONE!!! I can't believe the evilness of this mechanical horror. And the last time I was on, a couldn't post any of my amazing skinny dipping pictures. The world is a much worse place because of these electronic abominations.
