Things I have done

I have finished my afgan! That is to say, I have used all the yarn I originally purchased for the project, and don't plan to purchase any more.

I feel amazingly proud of this fact. My NONI, other members of my family and varoius friends/lovers have all tried valiantly to teach me to crochet. They have all failed. My left-handedness coupled with a complete lack of spacial perception (I didn't crawl as an infant, apparently this is a side effect), and being dyslexic have all conspired to keep me crochet-impaired.

However, I have overcome! It's only longstitch (the only stitch I've been able to teach myself to do), but the edges are even and I love it!

The cat also loves it.

The next project will involve a second skein of the super yummy 20.00 yarn that hobby lobby keeps tempting me with to finish my lap-afgan/shawl.

I also have my eye on one of those mega cones of cotton yarn, maybe another afgan? Who knows?

Both will have to wait until I'm employed again.

But today? I'm proud of ME!

THEY GAVE US A LICENSE

(IN RESPONSE TO
THOM WHO SAYS
ALL POETS ARE LIARS)

While I am not ready to admit ALL poets are liars.

I counter, maybe, o.k. all poets are narcissists.

Or perhaps, as in my case,
just
orally/aurally fixated.

Both properly connected,
yet, we're
somehow miss-wired:
mouth to ear.

It's all about the words,
lost, stroked, turned, twisted, fucked, fisted.
mothered, brothered, recanted, rediscovered.

All words are eventually lovers.

To make a homestead
in a tongue stroking
a stranger's ear.

A poem is not poetry
while it remains unsung.

For there is still so little
new under the sun,
all novelty is in Voices
and loose rhyme.

Words can access hearts,
minds, souls,
sometimes, to
find a few still beating.

Thus and then this beat is poet-precious.

For that?
Fragile beat-bridge connection>

For that narcissists, and sometimes liars
we will all become.

Holidays

Baby singer-songwriters
wailing
about
heading home,
and I'd
go.

If only
any somebody
who knows
might
tell me
the way.

'Cause I'm
flailing on
the fringes
and failing
to
see
or
seek the point.

Parking lot
conversations
and
second hand smoke
and
I'm
soaked to the skin.

In
“I wants”
and
“might have beens”.

Sometimes all
I can do
is walk away.

While the
screams
fly
silent
behind my
pleasant smile
and
I
while away
the time.

Wishing I could
sing
about going home.

12-19-08
Written last year, not totally relevant anymore, but true just the same.