It seems this way.
Through the various liquids every where, that we are taxing our bodies with our constant exchange. Poor things not quite capable of taking on more than a liter of wine. No, not on top of bellies swelling with pools of tears, saliva and cum, each from their own origin of love.
Then
swimming down through our inner seas
are the limitless reflections of our eyes, yours in mine, mine in yours and back again,
Deeper than the surface holding our long brown hairs crocheted together,
Bouncing past the buoys and their red flags marking where we climbed a tree, rode a train, paddled the bayou, danced for a while.
Weaving in between sounds and images we've given the other to make real how unworldly it is. So there should be no surprise when something unnecessary falls out; that the leaner of our words manage to suddenly free themselves or the thoughts which were never docked drift into sight.
Something black rising between us longs for a kiss goodbye, to give way to the rising good.We are so full, you and I
For that we must welcome and bid farewell the less weighty notions and worries as they make their way to the exterior.It seems this way.
That we are finite, but the ocean we carry is ever shoreless.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thing About Writing While Drinking is You Never Finish Either One
I didn’t vomit from the keg stand and I didn’t suffer any psychosomatic burn wounds from wearing the purple and gold t-shirt. On October 10, 2009, after nine years of this place, five of which were spend on LSU’s campus, I went tailgating for a LSU football game. Inadvertently, I had selected the Saturday heralded by ESPN as “anything but just another game”. Not knowing or even caring what that meant I set out, vodka concoction in hand, to face the legion of enemies who had so wronged me over the years. They kept me from getting to my beloved apartment off of Dalrymple Drive for weekends on end, they prevented me from hosting any cultural event that might coincide with the home game schedule, they had pervaded the national conception of what Baton Rouge looks like or cares about and they have fueled the criminal appropriation of university moneys. I was sure there was not enough alcohol or free BBQ in the world that could turn this sour relationship sweet.
My first goal (that’s a football pun, that’s what they call it when the ball goes through either giant pitchfork at the end of the field. Then every one watching strikes a pose as if they were going to do the Robot, but could only remember that first move), was to just break the ice. I found the most obnoxious Tiger fan I could without venturing too deep into the fray. He looked just like I imagined; beet-red face, protrusion under his lower lip from a stash of chew, slightly weathered baseball cap, khaki shorts sagging with reserve bottles of Abita Amber.
“And what is your name?” I braved to interrupt a game of beer pong.
“What?” he didn’t break his concentration.
“What’s your name?”
I attempted to guess before he answered Travis, Jackson, Trevor, Kurt, Cole.
“Lee,” he said.
I asked him how long he had been coming out to tailgate and it turns out Lee lives in a temporal dimension that most of us haven’t seen, because he said, “forever”. In fact, the 32 year-old was not even going to the game, his only reason to be there was to obviously perpetuate this never-ending, never-had-started act of tailgating.
“So why, what’s the big deal?”
“Just fun.”He was a man of few words, but precise action, as he sunk yet another ball into the awaiting cup of beer.
My first goal (that’s a football pun, that’s what they call it when the ball goes through either giant pitchfork at the end of the field. Then every one watching strikes a pose as if they were going to do the Robot, but could only remember that first move), was to just break the ice. I found the most obnoxious Tiger fan I could without venturing too deep into the fray. He looked just like I imagined; beet-red face, protrusion under his lower lip from a stash of chew, slightly weathered baseball cap, khaki shorts sagging with reserve bottles of Abita Amber.
“And what is your name?” I braved to interrupt a game of beer pong.
“What?” he didn’t break his concentration.
“What’s your name?”
I attempted to guess before he answered Travis, Jackson, Trevor, Kurt, Cole.
“Lee,” he said.
I asked him how long he had been coming out to tailgate and it turns out Lee lives in a temporal dimension that most of us haven’t seen, because he said, “forever”. In fact, the 32 year-old was not even going to the game, his only reason to be there was to obviously perpetuate this never-ending, never-had-started act of tailgating.
“So why, what’s the big deal?”
“Just fun.”He was a man of few words, but precise action, as he sunk yet another ball into the awaiting cup of beer.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Lucien & Frenchie
As she flattered herself with an unoriginal song he stood patient like a good editor who knows just when a line has run on too long. His head bowing to the future, hind limbs cocked on a hair trigger.
The misleading stance must have appeared a humble, deep-seated curtsy. And from such a high perch, made use only by her, what other gestures could she have seen?
The sun that morning painted greens along the length of her neck, and the conditioned air whispered through the yellows and golds. These maids-in-waiting warned of nothing, just brought in this day as they would have the next.
Singing the last notes of her phrases, wings opened, her head twisted slightly to the doorway and she remembered the young woman who called her by name.
He knew everything after that was superfluous, he took out his red pen.
"We don't need these commas, exclaimation points and conjunctions!" he hissed. "We don't need these cliches and dangling participles! We don't need the redundancy of this feather over that!"
He stripped her story to the bone and left only the dust jacket to thumb through.
I wrote this after hearing that Elise's parrot had been killed by Georgia's cat. No one was there to see it, only Todd had documented some evidence. So I thought a crime report should be created.
The misleading stance must have appeared a humble, deep-seated curtsy. And from such a high perch, made use only by her, what other gestures could she have seen?
The sun that morning painted greens along the length of her neck, and the conditioned air whispered through the yellows and golds. These maids-in-waiting warned of nothing, just brought in this day as they would have the next.
Singing the last notes of her phrases, wings opened, her head twisted slightly to the doorway and she remembered the young woman who called her by name.
He knew everything after that was superfluous, he took out his red pen.
"We don't need these commas, exclaimation points and conjunctions!" he hissed. "We don't need these cliches and dangling participles! We don't need the redundancy of this feather over that!"
He stripped her story to the bone and left only the dust jacket to thumb through.
I wrote this after hearing that Elise's parrot had been killed by Georgia's cat. No one was there to see it, only Todd had documented some evidence. So I thought a crime report should be created.
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