..and I'm too exhausted to create tables in SQL and query them. Ahh..impending geekdom.
I should be writing at times like these. Instead, here are two poems by two poets I rather like:
From a Vacant House
It is hard to want a thing you know will hurt another,
yet the heart persists, doesn't it, with its dark urges, liquid wish?
A sea town. Gulls, those malefica, uselessly scissor
thin-boned bodies against a beach washed of its will,
where a season ago women lay, dogs and children fastened
to the long arms of their concern, the men vacant and glittery
with spandex and oil. It is November, and already books thicken
at my bedside, a crush of paper characters awaiting the eye's
hurried pass, their unread stories attendant through the night,
until its bandage lifts to a morning blush, and I am held
within the parenthesis of a spare white house, a little thinner,
empty hands chilled like the faithful, offering myself to discipline's
cool machinery. I will stand on the pier, gesturing and cold.
I will open my mouth to your opening mouth.
--Mark Wunderlich
today is tuesday; email me on saturday
the secret of life is decisiveness
and to describe something
i see the distance and move immediately into it
now i am really alone
from here i know these things: that a hamster is a lonely fist
that my poems exist to dispel irrational angers, that i want to hold your face
with my face
like a hand
the secret of life is that i miss you, and this describes life
tonight my heart feels shiny and calm as a soft wet star
i describe it from a distance, then move quickly away
--Tao Lin
Male poets are weird, self-important creatures, but I like a handful of them because they sometimes say things I haven't found a way to say yet. Too many female poets write about the sunset and grandma's hands, strangers in coffee shops and why men are self-important creatures.
I like to write about self-important sunsets, and I hold my coffee cup like my grandma did.
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