Evidence Supporting the Little-Discussed Possibility That I May Not Be a Responsible Adult

I kinda strong-armed Asher into driving back from Longwood Gardens because I was hungry, never mind that he was both tired and hungry...

"When is your inspection?" he asked.

"I dunno. October maybe?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure it's this month. Unless this sticker is wrong."

"Really? Huh. That's... huh. I don't know when I would have noticed that if you hadn't pointed it out."

Inspection Friday.

The Joy of Losing Steam

8:22 pm tonight was the moment when I realized that my brain was too weary to soldier onward.

Now I sit on the couch and contemplate the daisies in the window, the roses on the table, and thank God for thinking when I can't. And I hear this song.

My soul waits, sings, sleeps for tomorrow. There's always hope, always a sunrise to expect, always.

I promised students I'd have some grades ready for tomorrow. I have plans and calls to make and bills to pay. And I already know that all I'll do about it all for tonight is write about it. Right there. Those necessities only get these few lines. This song on repeat.

William Stafford Makes Sense Today (Whereas Yesterday Was a Different Story)

Poetry is about more than the right word. It's about more than keeping interest, or using intricate and precise metaphors.

Poetry is about timing. You may read a poem, and not know right away that you need it. But later, when circumstance has caught up with you, you go searching about in your mind for those precise words, like a spell; because someone already said it, and said it deeper than you can in that hard moment. Maybe they understand what is happening to you.

Today, I was grasping for "that poem about how we're all in darkness, and we need to communicate better. Something about the darkness around us is deep." Thank you, William Stafford and the Internet, for this poem and access to it. It is not quite what I thought it was. But I grasp it tightly anyway, understanding today what would have been impossible yesterday. Even the elephants.

A Ritual To Read To Each Other

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

William Stafford

Arctic Wildlife

Prompt Part I. List your favorite words.
frazzled
urbane
franchise
dismember

Prompt Part II. Create a scary story, and use all the words listed.

Aboard the arctic fishing vessel, Jeremy pulled in the haul of cod.He had seen several seals that day, but no sign of Rick, his urbane friend who had begun the fishing franchise, and the brains of the small operation.

Hours passed, and the air temperature dropped, the rocking of the boat would not keep the water surrounding it from freezing in these shallows. Jeremy knew he had little time: he would have to decide now if he were going to stay here all night or get underway. But of course, where could he be?

The frazzled polar bear mother returned to the den with the larger part of a seal carcass which she had hunted to feed her lone cub. At least, she thought it was a seal when she came upon it swimming in the bright blue depths: all alone it was, with a strangely-shaped head. Yet, it appeared, with its sleek black body, to be a seal, though sickly, perhaps, which explained why it was swimming all alone. No matter. She had thought very little about it. Food was scarce, and she had hunted for days. 

But as she dismembered it, it tasted so very strange. And it had two strange layers of skin, the outer of which tasted so terrible that she nearly dropped it back into the depths. 

The Chevy Prizm Finally Speaks Out

Prompt: Write from the perspective of a non-human 9/28/12

Man, I wish she'd change my oil, already. It's not that I've gone all that far. No, I could take about a thousand more miles if it were that. It's just... well, it feels nourishing and right to have my oil changed.

But speaking of 1,000 miles, I'm not gonna make it on these tires. My tread is so worn down, I just hope no one has to die before she finally notices. I just shudder when the roads are wet even a little bit. And it's not like she's a good driver who can actually handle hydro-planing. Actually, she's pretty terrible. I can feel the tension of the passengers' seats, and they constantly wrench my grab-handles.

The Mercury next to me tells about how her driver this, or her driver that--filled the tank the whole way, got her tires rotated, re-vamped the air-conditioning, vacuumed her interior! When was the last time ole Leadfoot did any of that for me? I can't even remember.

Lies I'm Tired Of

All my life, I've been told, I've been sold,
that my skin is too pale.

On the other side of the world,

Leixin has been told, has been sold,
that her skin color is too dark.

And now we're sitting across from each other in the library,
bravely whispering, discovering how we've been shamed,
and how we've thought we were ugly
for no FUCKING reason.






Alternate ending #1

...and how we've thought we were ugly.

I'm done buying it.

Alternate ending #2

...and how we've thought we were ugly
to please no one but a liar
who delights in our misery.

A Post About Pot

In the last month, I have given the "don't-do-drugs" talk to precisely three young men. I would have stopped at one if not for a brief conversation I was privy to over the holidays between two people I love very much. It went like this:

Person A: You know, I was talking with my buddy just this week, and we were saying, pot isn't dangerous right away. It's insidious. I look back on my life so far, and I've missed whole years because of pot.

Person B (a generation older) : I've missed decades.

+++

I know a lot of people use pot responsibly, despite obtaining it illegally. But I will keep giving the "don't-do-drugs" talk even after pot is legalized. I have trouble teaching the glazed, red eyes in class, sedated, for the moment, occasionally asking questions that I've already answered, writing papers that they think are brilliant, but are nonsense.

+++

Of course all the states will legalize pot, eventually. If we accept alcohol, which is insidious, indeed, then we are sure to accept pot, too. And neither marijuana nor alcohol are to blame if people become dependent upon them. But let's not. Let's not even break the law to get pot, because it doesn't control us. And while we're at it, let's not allow a host of slowly detrimental behaviors to control us, especially not short-lived pleasure.

+++

The three guys I talked to, by the way, all share commonalities: they feel incredible pressure to become something important. They are representing their families in the U.S.; they have this one chance to make good, and they are so afraid of failing.