Taking no prisoners. Including herself.

Well, it’s nice to know there’s no one out there among my audience of readers that writes poetry, or rather, no one out there willing to submit their poetry for posting. I’ll take this to mean one of three things:

1) My audience of readers is a very shy group
2) My audience of readers is a very smart group
3) I have no audience of readers

And so, it seems that the burden of bad poetry falls upon the shoulders of yours truly. (I won’t disappoint.)

I will, however, with the following poem, bid adieu to the annuals of Project Sedation as, sadly, my bottle of vicodin proffers nothing but narcotic dust, my martini glass no longer runneth over, and my bottles of codeine are nothing more than sticky, empty vessels of syrupy memories once full of the potential for confused ramblings of intoxicated stanzas… now little more than fodder for the recycling bin (it’s now “hot to be green” — see the cover of this week’s
Newsweek. That, and I’ve moved on to uppers.

Oh, settle down, people — I kid!

Truth be told I’m moving on to other forms of writing, trying to check off project ideas that have been a long-time-coming (Generation Now, more Craigslist folly, some JetSet wrap-up) and wipe my writing slate clean for what’s to come in the following months: another round of Slinky, a more journalistic focus, capturing some tendrils of summer, and the beginning preparations for a novel.

We’ll see how it goes. If I don’t ever write another word again and disappear into the irretrievable depths of a complacent existence, never again surfacing into the ever-widening scope of the blogosphere, we won’t judge. And why’s that, you ask?

Because around here, we’re Not Keeping Score.

Only Dirt

What are these two supposed poles
around which I navigate
I see only a black hole
into which I lean, and there’s nothing great

about leaning over an edge
only to get a better view of death
(which sits at Stupidity’s ledge;)
or holding breath

for a moment to be un-weak
as if the world will turn right-side out
for that sinking chasm to become a peak
from which we’ll see God’s snout

Well, let me tell you,
there is no nose of God,
nor a place to climb to –
Only sky, and dirt, and sod

§223 · July 11, 2006 · Poetry · · [Print]

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