See you on the other side…

During this next week and a half or so I’m gonna be swamped with school work that I need to finish up for the end of the semester.  Unfortunately that means I probably wont have a chance to really work on anything new or to fiddle with much else on this site.  So I’m doing 2 things.  First, I have a poem I wrote back in February that I’m posting now.  I’ve also submitted a slightly edited version of it to the Landfills Literary Magazine featured in my “I’m Following” tab, so hopefully that will get published in the next week.  Second, I’m gonna start fiddling with a new page on here that’ll kinda feature some of the books, authors, poets, etc. that I draw some inspiration from or at the very least enjoy.

So those things are happening.  See y’all in a couple weeks!

 

            The Gambler

I knew the odds
Before I sat down at the table
For years I watched on the sidelines
Afraid to take the risk
As those around me anted up
Some took the pot
Others burned out
One took his addiction elsewhere
Falling back on old habits
Hoping one day he’d win it big

I’d played a hand or two before
But that was years ago
And that game was small-time
Just a bunch of kids really
They never played for stakes like these

So the day I laid down my chips
At this table
I don’t know what I expected
A few others were already seated
And one in particular
Appeared to be cleaning house

I played it soft and slow at first
Feeling out the table
And the cards being dealt
Sizing up my opponents
I could’ve walked at any time
Moved on to more promising tables
But this was the Pot I wanted most in the world

Then the favorite lost the lead
He got cocky
Lost his head
Poor judgment
And I made my move
Aggressive yet steady
I held my ground
Soon the table favored me
And the amateurs left the game
Surely, I thought,
The Pot is mine
I grew comfortable and confident
But as the old timers say
Never count your chips at the table

One opponent remained
And wanted to redeem himself
Take back the Pot he had lost
Thanks to his carelessness
It happened gradually
I almost ignored it
He played like a pro
But I refused to give up my spot

My luck had gone cold
And I ordered drink after drink
Nearly on tilt
As he took hand after hand
I was losing my hope

I guess
He just had better cards
And all the anger
And depression
And drunken nights
Can’t change the cards I’m dealt

Even though he runs the table now
I just can’t bring myself to walk away yet
Eventually
I suppose
I’ll move on
Half-heartedly
Throwing down chips at other tables
Maybe I’ll even win a small game
Or two

But this was my first big Pot
And I’m sure
I’ll always come back from time-to-time
When I’m feeling restless
To play a few hands
And see if I can get back in the game

In the end though
There were lessons to be learned
Lady Luck is a bitch
Don’t get mad at the Dealer
And Love is a cruel game

 

Poetry Month Continues

While avoiding my school work this afternoon, I managed to revise and finish a poem I started working on earlier in the month.  It seems my inspiration will perpetually be my procrastination.

               Reality-Shock

You have your eyes set
On the image of the muscled man
Dressed in fine clothes
Smoothly shaved and hair close-cropped
Riding upon his white horse
A prince rescuing his princess

Sorry to burst your bubble

I don’t really frequent the gym
And though I don’t dress in rags
I’d likely show up in a t-shirt & jeans
Rather than a pressed tuxedo
I also despise shaving
So I hope you like beards
Or at least permanent stubble
I’ve never had a noble steed either
But I do own a hand-me-down Buick
With the ceiling fabric stapled into place

Sorry but I’m not plastic

There is one part of your fantasy
I can fulfill however
I am here to save you
But in this case
The dragon is your delusions
About what your Prince Charming is expected to be

Welcome to the real world Sweetheart.
Glad you could finally join us.

Yay for poetry!

Apparently April is National Poetry Month.

Therefore I figured I’d try to do primarily poetry related posts.  I’ll try to post as many of my own stuff as I think isn’t terrible and maybe a few things by some poets I enjoy.  Below is something I wrote for a creative writing class about a year and a half ago.

            Hymn for Death

Here beneath the lights of Heaven
As the night slips quietly by
I e’er sit among my fellows
Shadows of the ones who’ve died

Oft Death comes like a lonely trav’ler
Gathering those whom Fate has deemed
Time now marches on without them
Far beyond where mortals dreamed

So we follow the ceaseless pilgrim
Wrapped in cloak of blackest night
‘Til all memories forsaken
And we fade from wretched wight

My Friend the Bottle

This is a revised version of a piece I had submitted to the 50 Items or Less blog

Cold curb under my ass
Soaked by freezing rain
A bartender inside
Gets the crowd under control
Blood trickles down my face
Coats my knuckles
Did I black out again?
An unlit cigarette between my lips
But my hand can’t work the lighter
Damn cops should be here by now

50 items or less…

So my excellent friend Cameron introduced me to a website/Facebook group a couple weeks ago that his brother created.
50 Items or Less

This sweet little blog is an exercise for writers (both professional and amateur) to challenge us.  The goal, as the title suggests, it to write a piece in any genre or form that exactly meets the limit of 50 words.  It challenges a writer to examine their use of language and the way they may elaborate on an idea.  These “mini-sagas”, as the moderator calls them, need to tell an entire story in the restricted word space.

I absolutely love everything about this.  And it is also giving me a very narrow space in which to experiment a little.  The other members of this group do a magnificent job of giving peer feedback and criticisms as well.  They really love good writing and genuinely enjoy helping other writers.

This is the first piece that I wrote and had published by this blog:

“Bitter Cold”

Remember those nights, lying there together under my sparse covers? You, shivering in your perpetual cold (myself a human furnace), as you scrambled to find more blankets. It was a foreshadowing of our relationship. Even as I wrapped you in the warmth of my love, your heart was eternal ice.

I can’t wait to share more of my work from this group!

A brand new draft

A while back I saw a poster in the hallways of my school advertising for an overseas study program.  The words struck me as something interesting to play with and I filed them away to work with later.  I found them again as I browsed through my notebook today and decided to see what I could make of it.  The following little poem is a first draft and, as a warning, is somewhat sexually suggestive in nature.  I hope y’all enjoy it and I welcome feedback.

                      Study a Broad in Barcelona

Study a broad in Barcelona.

Rest your head in the bosom of her land.

And as you gaze upon her luscious curves,

Hills and valleys that yearn for your presence,

Listen close to those sweet words whispered on a breath of wind.

Take in the soft perfume of those golden fields

As they cascade down from the north.

Stare deeply into her blue-green pools

And feel her want reflected back at you.

As you move ever southward,

Fear not the call to explore every inch of her.

Even as her soft landscape yields to your timid touch.

When, finally, you reach the apex of your journey,

Do not deny that most heated desire.

Delve into her waiting grotto and enjoy

That beautiful release

For which you’ve both long awaited.

And when the time comes,

That you must leave her gentle embrace

And sail for other shores,

Lament not her loss.

Instead,

Remember fondly your time

In that most sublime place.

And set your eyes on the next horizon.

March 2012

The Worst Day Since Yesterday

Standing in the doorway to my bedroom.  There’s definitely something wrong with my ceiling.  I have my roommate check to make sure I’m not seeing things.  That is definitely a major bubble in my ceiling, right above my bed.

Great.

            That means water damage most likely.  Which means at any moment water could come pouring through my ceiling and soak my bed and possessions.  Laptop, iPod, textbooks, and paperwork all potentially ruined.  Right about now I’m wishing I had gotten rental insurance for my laptop.  We move everything to one side of my room and call maintenance.  A guy in a hoodie and workboots shows up in an hour.  Says it looks bad, he’ll put the work order in when he gets back to the office.

Two weeks later. 

            The bubble’s still there.  No one’s come by to fix it.  I call to complain and to find out what’s happening, why my ceiling hasn’t been fixed yet, when will someone be out to take care of it.  They tell me someone will be by tomorrow to look at it.

Tomorrow comes.  So does another guy in a hoodie and workboots.  Again he says it looks bad.  We need to fix it soon.

No kidding.

            I tell him I don’t care how much of a mess it’ll make; I just want it done already.

A week later the semester ends and I’ve gone home for winter break.  I left my apartment a mess though, so I go back after a few days to clean up and check on my room.

Still not fixed.

            Not only is the bubble still there, it’s becoming bigger.  And so is my frustration.  I call again to complain.  The maintenance man on the other end of the phone assures me it’ll be taken care of.  Another guy tells my mother the same thing when she calls the next day.  Done by the end of break.  Absolutely.

Or not.

            The problem continues to grow.  So I start making it more difficult for them to ignore my ever expanding issue.  I start calling every few days, then every other day, then every day.  I can hear the somehow comforting sounds of dread and annoyance in their voices when I tell them who is calling.  It’s the only satisfaction I really expect to receive from these calls.  Always asking the same thing:

“Hi.  I’m just wondering… when exactly is my ceiling going to be fixed?”

            I start dragging more and more people into this.  I speak to the supervisor at the maintenance company and he tells me someone will be out in a day or two.  I meet with a “higher-up” at the apartment company and bring him out to my apartment to see the damage for himself.  He acts surprised and appalled at the state my ceiling is in.  They all assure me the problem will be taken care of soon.

It’s already been eight weeks.

            Apparently that’s still not long enough to wait.  We start talking to others.  The town inspector nearly has a heart attack when he sees my ceiling.  The school’s lawyer is happy to give advice; he hates my apartment company even more than I do.  He tells us to document everything.  I compile all the photographs I’ve taken over the last two months; it’s like a flip-book tracking the growth of this bubble in my ceiling.

My roommate jumps at the opportunity to call the maintenance company time.  He’s armed with the confidence of talking with the school’s lawyer and the experience of dealing with people who don’t do their jobs.  It’s better this way.  I’m getting too tired for this crap.  I’d probably just start to curse someone out.  My dad and the lawyer both tell me that wouldn’t be very productive.

40 minutes.

            He spent 40 minutes on the phone.  They apologized.  Apparently clerical errors have resulted in nearly three months of unsafe living conditions and living in half of my bedroom because I’ve been afraid of a block of ice falling through my ceiling at any moment.  Boy do I love dealing with bureaucracy.

One hour.

            The day they finally came by to fix my ceiling, it took one hour.  I spent almost three months trying to get someone to do their job and all it took was one hour of their time.  Some days I just want to punch a wall, but that probably wouldn’t be fixed until next spring. 

Three days later. 

            The rain is coming down hard outside.  It’s late and quiet in my apartment and I lay down on my bed to sleep, satisfied with the repairs to my ceiling.  No longer am I afraid of water pouring into my room or a block of ice falling on me in my sleep.

Within five minutes. 

            I can hear the water dripping through my roof and onto the fresh patch of drywall above me.

Son of a b-

How about something a little more serious…

                     Damn

Cold rain

Washing away

The painful thoughts of you

Lets my heart breathe anew and feel

Empty

February 2012

Happy World Poetry Day!

                     Of Poetry and Bathroom Graffiti

I want to write the next great poem,
But I feel it’s all been said.
Donne told Death to be not proud.
And so I rack my head…

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood?
No, that was Robert Frost.
I worry if I follow one,
I would just get lost.

I write and write but never find
The words I want to say.
Maybe a Dream within a Dream?
But Poe has had his way.

And as I sit here on my couch,
The only lines I hear
Were written on a toilet’s walls
Of an outhouse far from here:

Here I sit
Brokenhearted
Tried to shit
But only farted
Later on
I’ll take a chance
Try to fart
And shat my pants

Sonnet 21

Because I got bored and thought, “How hard could it be?”

Lo, the cup is pressed unto my lip

And back I tilt my head to drink its mix

Consuming poison, soon it will equip

My mind on thoughts transcendent now transfix

So as I sit upon my barstool high

Singing along to Foreigner and Queen

I hit upon a barskank passing by

But was slapped so hard I felt it in my spleen

And noticing that pain was still perceived

I quickly called to drink another round

Of a cure our ancestors conceived

In which my fickle worries soon were drowned

So remember wisdom freely taught

Now just suit up and drink another shot

December 2010