As I Lie Dying

There's only one downside to the advent of autumn, and that's getting sick at the first severe drop in temperature. Damn this humidity, and damn this cold. I don't know about you guys, but when I get sick, all I want to do is lie in a heap of my own misery and pray for death.

It gets you thinking, though, since you're incapable of anything more than putting on old episodes of Futurama and making mug after mug of tea. Funny how an art form that thrives on misery should have so little about this fundamental unhappiness.


As I Lie Dying

There aren't many poems on being sick.
I thought of that today as I lay prone
upon my sweaty bed, hemmed in by
half-drunk cups of juice and wads of snot
balled up in tissue. Gross, I know, but true;
it's part of life, like death, a shitty job,
or saying that you love someone you don't,
or taking out the trash on Monday night.
Seems there should be poems written of it.
Mundane, perhaps, but poignant nonetheless:
a quiet struggle on these hapless sheets.
There is no nobler fight than where I lie,
evaluating where I am and why,
and wishing I were better than I was.

Nights Like These

Sorry it's so late today, kids. I had an idea knocking around in my head last night, but I couldn't really get it into lines until today. I'm still not happy with it, but when you're over sixteen hours past deadline, you learn to accept these things. And on the off chance that anyone thinks it's about you, you're probably right.


Nights Like These

Nights like these are rare, these nights of peace;
nights like tonight, just sitting by myself.
When all the world is empty, sound asleep,
and all within is quiet. All is well.
The glass of whiskey gives me no release;
the strains of blues don't take me off the shelf.
They're company, they're friends of heavy deep,
But they're not while I smile tonight. I'll tell
you this - alone's the sweetest time for me,
booze and music drowning out the light;
it's not so bad in shadow when you see
that someone's there to make it seem alright.
And yeah, it's just a sense. Might not be true,
but I'll smile tonight, alone, thinking of you.

On the Art of Thought Retention

My brain's so fried from playing Rock Band 2 all day that I had some serious difficulties sitting down and writing this tonight. Nevertheless, what started out as frustration turned into one of my favorite things about being a writer - playing with language. Remember what I said about tetrameter a few months back? That sing-songy texture to it makes this a lot of fun to read. Check to make sure no one's listening, then give it a shot.


On the Art of Thought Retention

When thought, a thought's in instant measured,
tried and scanned at heartless pace,
judged and lost, and thickly treasured -
Aught is augured, all's erased.
And on and on these thoughts encrease,
recurse, recourse, repress, repeat.
And all for what? A thought's release
recoils, and to itself retreats.
So think of this: that thought you had
you've had before, you'll have again;
for such is thought, each thought to add
to thoughts of folly. Such is then
that all you do is all you can,
and hope to end what you began.

Calm

It's been a good day. I won't bore you with the details, but for the first time in a while, everything seemed like it was under control today. (snort) We'll see how long that lasts.

Nothing fancy with this one, but I think I'm starting to get a handle on my "voice" again. Forgive the use of the term, but it's what we poetry nerds use to denote what makes a written piece unique to its author. In my case, it's weird similes.


Calm

I wasn't quite expecting it today.
Today was just another in a string
of mostly-wasted days, of puttering
about the house. A day to shrug away.
But sometime in the empty afternoon,
I had a book in hand, a comfy chair,
some symphony or other in the air,
when all the world went quiet as a spoon.
I will admit, I freaked a little then;
(for after all, these things are rare as stars)
I worried, fretted, tried to make it stay.
But then I stopped. I smiled, I let it play
its way through me. I'll let it leave its scars,
and let it pass, and hope it comes again.

Stop Touching All My Stuff.

Yep. One day late. Sorry again, all two of my readers. Won't happen again.

This one's for you, Courtney. You have my sympathies, dearheart. There's nothing worse than a sick roommate. My suggestion - a shotgun and some fire. Then some Vitamin C, just to be sure.


Stop Touching All My Stuff

You wipe your nose, then rifle through my notes.
You hack, you spit your plague with every huff,
you sound like seven toads are in your throat.
You're sick. Please stop touching all my stuff.
Back! Stay back, I do not have the time
for ghastly pallor, for mucous on my cuff
in three-crust layers! Keep your sickly slime
away from me. Stop touching all my stuff!
I see it now - the pictures on the news
of droves afflicted, pestilent and dying.
The pox you've spread! A holocaust ensues -
the lives destroyed by you! The children crying!
Its root, one Patient Zero - you. Enough!
I beg of you, stop touching all my stuff.

Oops!

Yeah, between the amount of traveling I've done all weekend and the amount of meat I ingested last night, I totally forgot what day it was. I'll have a sonnet up by the end of the day, I promise.