Thursday, March 25, 2010
I don't think we're full of anything,
not even blood or guts or love.
I listen to songs sometimes that
break out in a rash about the number of lies
that some lover told;
and how they seem to leak illness the way fries leak oil
But I guess numbers are hard to tell; and counting is really so absurd.
I'm an apprentice
and I know that I'm darker than anything I say.
I'm not evil, no. Just limp and sideways and sometimes empty:
so when I lie it is occasionally a way of finding a way
out and not saving my changes.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
I'm all dry of words and my insides feel pickled and I have all my assignments dinosauring their way towards me. If I could see myself in a series of visuals with the appropriate bleak light, I might be moved.
But here's a poem that makes weariness thin, every time. Dear, dear Raymond Carver.
And did you get what
you wanted from life, even so?
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The things which have the greatest value in use have frequently little or no value in exchange; and, on the contrary, those which have the greatest value in exchange have frequently little or no value in use."
Maybe this sounds more profound to me because I'm listening to Yann Tiersen. Still.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Love is not a profession
genteel or otherwise
sex is not dentistry
the slick filling of aches and cavities
you are not my doctor
you are not my cure,
nobody has that
power, you are merely a fellow/traveller
Give up this medical concern
permit yourself anger, and permit me mine
which needs neither
your approval nor your surprise
which does not need to be made legal
which is not against a disease
but against you,
which does not need to be understood
or washed or cauterized,
which needs instead
to be said and said.
Permit me the present tense.
a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
The edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn
where painfully, and with wonder
at having survived even
we are learning to make fire.
(by Margaret Atwood)