I didn’t post in the entire month of April. You know – poetry month. I suck. But I’m still alive and will be back at it.
Kind of a sad topic for my 100th post, but I guess it’s fitting that one milestone is marked by another. The Zeugma Workshop (www.zpoems.net) is no more, at least for now. Read more…
I wish I could say I thought of this, but you can’t make this sort of thing up.
Not sure I’m ready to write poetry about it yet, but I’ve been working 60 hour weeks on a software project at work – installing some new software. One of the recurring themes with the software, and one that’s taking many people at work a great deal to get used to, is the fact that the software now touches on every department of the company, whereas the old accounting software just did the billing and purchase orders after everyone got through pushing the product around the building.
And of course I’ve been dreaming about the software. The TV show I saw last night, and how it would relate to the software. The book I read, and how the characters would deal with the software. The fact that I need to go to the bathroom and yet don’t want to get out of the warm bed and into the cold bathroom, and how this fact would be entered in the software…
Is the type of throat clearing
they tell you not to do in workshops – the coughing phlegm
of a lawn mower first cranked in spring, after priming the bowl
and yanking on the rope until your shoulders ache and
you sweat and curse, tired before any work is done.
It’s been a tough week for writing. My half-hearted attempt to post something every day in April (I almost made it!) used up some mojo, or something. I keep having ideas, but they’re not gelling enough to go public with them (and regular readers know that’s a low standard for me).
On the gadget front, I bought a Bluetooth keyboard for my beloved iPad, so that may help matters some. I’m typing on it now! Isn’t it exciting! Do my characters look different!
A customer tries to buy shirts with “a boiled cotton scent that reminds him of his grandmother.”
A famed conductor agrees to create a music festival with definite Aryan overtones, I can see from the poster for it that the clarinet mouthpieces they use are impossible to play. I am horrified by the fact that the orchestra would do this. The conductor assures me privately that the project is like “subtly digging an obnoxious guest you have in your own home.”
I wake up wondering if these two things, and an even vaguer memory of another transaction where I stand wondering if I’ve already paid, or should pay, for something I’m not even sure I still have, have any threads of connection I could braid into some kind of poem.
I lay awake wondering if I can make it from the bed to the point of writing it down without losing it all, like carrying a handful of oil.
When I posted the poem about loving-kindness meditation (or the lack thereof), I’d really been noticing a spectacular failure in that department. A day after I posted it, an old high school friend sent me a picture of us on a date from back then. And no, she doesn’t even know about this blog, so it was coincidence (or was it?) Read more…
I don’t want to post
another retread so have
a haiku instead.