A microscopic home.

this is a literary blog. i'm literate so i must have something to say. hopefully.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

april is the month for ramblings

today was beautiful. I, however, woke up very late, around 2:30pm, and now an hour later, I still have hopes of marketing on the sun. I may take pictures by myself today, it has been quite some time since I went out alone.

I find it odd that all of my friends who are still away at school, are experiencing the end of the year panic- the manic essay writing, the cramming for exams. Then here I am sitting on my couch, wondering what I want to do with my day. I like this freedom. I have never taken a break from the school system before. It's amazing what one thinks about when one gets outside of it. As long as you are not prone to laziness, you get to accomplish a lot of things, and you still have a bit of time to be lazy. And although I am going through a bout of depression, new medications, and a daily intake of weed, I still have time to create things. Time to go out and see people. Although it does allow me too much time to think, and on occasion, I have been known to get in trouble for that.

I smoked a joint today on the corner of my porch where the light sort of squeezes past the urban housing and makes a rectangular pool of warmth. The sky is clear today and I appreciate that so very much. It has been raining and grey a bit too often here for me.

I am planning to make use of this blog over the next few months. I've never kept a journal for this long. It's healthy to get things out, and keep track of days, and frankly it's easier for me to share things over this medium then to people in my life. ha. oh that's so sad.

Anyways, the editing on the poetry for the chapbook is coming along. the second issue of the zine is coming along as well too. And hopefully I will have some pictures edited and put up here in the next few days. hopefully. I have a impossibly long to do list right now.

I wanted to post some poetry that I have found in the last few weeks that seems fitting for the season. fitting for my mood.

posted by rob mclennan
Monday, April 03, 2006
into last spring
(from "sequence")

back; this is just to say

a market farm of plums; this is to repeat

why to go there; nothing new
& nothing changed

I am breakaway, speeds
& warped cosmology

if I was debris; to collide
into a body blonde

explosive, would be

a character of scored flesh; in
the centre human

so much of this feeling has consequence

this is an attempt to break
this is another failure

birds & still more; suddenly

how can you be building me a burn

you are silhouette, outside
& never ending

last tulip
by hannah

Once the world loved a girl,
whose arms extended in Spanish gardens
ripe with sleeping cats and dahlias
the hue of her cheeks after
half a liter of Bukoff

whose polite cold hands
cupped the fat-faced August moon
with the placid touch of mothers
and sluts

who the universe tumbled into
at a time
as tall boys, as meadows, rolling a joint
on the first open windowsill
of spring

whose lips would own anything
they brushed against,
two pale anenomes
with the frantic cling
of a child,
of a fever.

and who, as everything I have loved,
walks alone now, straightfaced
defeated by sobriety
waiting for a night train to reel in
and take her soul from her body
and deliver it to the grim bearded men
selling cheap guitars and spare bones
by the stagnant waters of Lethe.

by nick

In eighty-six years,

i will be driving this road

and this seat to the next of me

will be empty

and my hands will be wires
and your hair


and this car will be silent

silent like the day before you were

silent like the day before

for i will have already remembered

all of the songs there are

to remember

and i will have

white wires

for the hush of days

carefully tied about the wisps of your wrists

even though my hands would have shaken terribly

in eighty-six years,

i will be driving down this road

and this seat to the next of me

will be empty

except for some song i will sing

some one without words

though my voice will be all but wisps

white wires

to cross my arms

like a horn

to lead me homeward

Why do you hate me?
John Newlove
from Apology for Absence: Selected Poems 1962-1992.

So you live of the sea;
and I am the dry acrid land.

You have the sweet fish swimming
and dull mannerly grain grows in me.

Your blood shines in curving darts;
I grow in calculated rows.

So I say I love you,
and you say, Why do you hate me?

I speak in a foreign language.
You don't know what I say.

spring has arrived here in sarnia. it is strange that the earth is coming to life again with new beginnings, and I myself am stuck only in horrible endings. I just have to remember that there are 6.5 billion people in the world exactly like me
and maybe I won't feel so bad.


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