I start out with words never ideas. The ideas come from the words. Sometimes the ideas bubble and ferment but never get made into wine. Time to make the wine.
Time
Wine
Tine
Wime
God, I am tired. Hungover. Achy. Jumped up and danced on a bar last night then fell down. The sweet, mechanical engineering master's degreed dark-skinned boy helped me up off the floor. Precious boys. Sweet young boys. I want to rub their arms and chests and stomachs.
Okay back to poetry forms. Sometimes I write ragged lines. I imagine lines with the edges torn off. My mind wanders. Let's see...green shirt that says "Books Rule" on it. What about "Book Rules"? He has a large nose. Brown hair with ragged lines cut in the back making it wavy and upturned. He wears glasses. White skin. Looks like pure white dough before it's kneaded and baked when the dusty white flour still coats it. On his arms the dark hair stands out.
No, no, no! Images of my ex-lover are creeping in. The old desire, the desire for his long hairy body. No! I hate him now. I despise him. He of the low brain, low class, and even lower tastes.
I'm rambling again. I'm hot and hungover sitting in a poetry class learning all my sonnets again. Sunbrained. HA! Just came up with that one.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
The Beach House (9/16/07;wp)
I'm back in the same beach house as last year with my friends and their children. The early morning sun makes my eyes squint; forehead furrow. A shrimp boat out on the glass-surfaced water reflecting the sun, the boat like a painting found in the seashell souvenir shops along The Strand. I listen to the waves. They're saying "We rise and fall but it's more than that. We move through wind, get caught up in the currents, carried along, our liquid selves meshing with the air. We fold up and over and head for the shore. We want to come ashore and spread out over the sand. We're in constant motion not stopping even for a day."
I do enjoy my coffee. Not with milk though but there's nothing for it. No creamer of any kind in this beach house. Kids slathered in sunscreen. A kitchen full of food I can't eat. But it's so worth it because my friends' husbands tell me I look great. So I think giving up all the food I like to eat to get a spectacular body is well worth the sacrifice. Hmm...maybe that's what my sonnet should be about. All the food I love but can no longer have.
Cheese: Gouda, Parmesan, asiago, bleu, all the rank smelly cheeses out at Central Market
Bread: Big, doughy, loaves soaked in olive oil mixed with spices
Crackers: Ritz, Saltines, Wheat Thins, Goldfish, Cheeze Nips, Triscuits with slices of ham, Colby Jack cheese, and olives with garlic in the pits
Chips: Pringles, the whole can, sour cream 'n' onion, bbq, salt & vinegar, habanero, jalapeno, so much salt on my tongue, splitting it open with fissures like the earth after an earthquake, my lips cracking apart, not bleeding only because I saturate them in lip balm
Eggs I can eat but not the way Johnny is eating them, baked in a dish with cheese, cream, sausage, and picante sauce smothering the top. Ah, I miss all that heavy food but heavy on the outside turns me heavy inside and out. The salt fills my cells and makes them expand pushing out all ridges, rolls, and my flesh hangs and jiggles. But with light food my body becomes light. The flesh shrinking, the curves becoming rounded, and soft. Not bulging and bulky.
Cake: dough turned black with chocolate and the sugar icing coating the top
Cookies: chocolate chip, macadamia nut, snicker doodle, cinnamon
Pie: cherry, apple, blueberry, lattice pies with that delicious crust
Nuts: pistachios, pecans, almonds, peanuts, cashews, especially peanuts in a bowl with Tabasco sauce and lemon juice. Eating the whole bowl, my lips, tongue, and throat on fire. If I let that happen then the oils in the peanuts would act like a catalyst to produce the oils in my face. Bursting, like tiny oil wells, all the acne ruining my face. No, that will never happen.
I do enjoy my coffee. Not with milk though but there's nothing for it. No creamer of any kind in this beach house. Kids slathered in sunscreen. A kitchen full of food I can't eat. But it's so worth it because my friends' husbands tell me I look great. So I think giving up all the food I like to eat to get a spectacular body is well worth the sacrifice. Hmm...maybe that's what my sonnet should be about. All the food I love but can no longer have.
Cheese: Gouda, Parmesan, asiago, bleu, all the rank smelly cheeses out at Central Market
Bread: Big, doughy, loaves soaked in olive oil mixed with spices
Crackers: Ritz, Saltines, Wheat Thins, Goldfish, Cheeze Nips, Triscuits with slices of ham, Colby Jack cheese, and olives with garlic in the pits
Chips: Pringles, the whole can, sour cream 'n' onion, bbq, salt & vinegar, habanero, jalapeno, so much salt on my tongue, splitting it open with fissures like the earth after an earthquake, my lips cracking apart, not bleeding only because I saturate them in lip balm
Eggs I can eat but not the way Johnny is eating them, baked in a dish with cheese, cream, sausage, and picante sauce smothering the top. Ah, I miss all that heavy food but heavy on the outside turns me heavy inside and out. The salt fills my cells and makes them expand pushing out all ridges, rolls, and my flesh hangs and jiggles. But with light food my body becomes light. The flesh shrinking, the curves becoming rounded, and soft. Not bulging and bulky.
Cake: dough turned black with chocolate and the sugar icing coating the top
Cookies: chocolate chip, macadamia nut, snicker doodle, cinnamon
Pie: cherry, apple, blueberry, lattice pies with that delicious crust
Nuts: pistachios, pecans, almonds, peanuts, cashews, especially peanuts in a bowl with Tabasco sauce and lemon juice. Eating the whole bowl, my lips, tongue, and throat on fire. If I let that happen then the oils in the peanuts would act like a catalyst to produce the oils in my face. Bursting, like tiny oil wells, all the acne ruining my face. No, that will never happen.
Back from the dead
No one actually ever comes back from the dead. But here I am saying it as a way to tell you all that I am coming back and staying this time. The last 8 months have been hell. There is no other way to put it. I lost my father and I also lost my lover. I'll say his name now, Michael T., and I don't care who knows it or who goes and tattles to his girlfriend about us. Fuck him. I'll catch up with all that later. For now I want to say that I am free of that bastard. That lying, cheating, horrid, pathetic excuse for a man.
I will be putting up my writing practices on the blog. All the stuff in my head. All the stuff I write raw from the depths. It's all going to come out. Names might be mentioned. But maybe not. How will the writing practice be distinguishable from the regular blog? Well now I just don't know. Let's see how it goes.
I will be putting up my writing practices on the blog. All the stuff in my head. All the stuff I write raw from the depths. It's all going to come out. Names might be mentioned. But maybe not. How will the writing practice be distinguishable from the regular blog? Well now I just don't know. Let's see how it goes.
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