Bad Blogger

I guess I am a terrible blogger and even worse writer. I give up quickly and never have anything to say.

I'm gonna try some free flowing poetry...it has been so long since I have written any kind of poetry. College poetry class, maybe?

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The doomsday soothsayers
are standing on street corners
still trying to tell us how to live
our lives like our souls were spun glass
that need to be swathed in cotton
laid at the bottom of a long forgotten drawer
An ornament to be taken out once or twice a year
Inspected gingerly then tucked away
My soul, mind, inner self
is not a a collectors item that is only worth
something in it's orginial box
never to be touched directly by human hands
I live my life to be broken
and remended covered in fingerprints
of every person who has come near me

~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a question mark
growing beneath my navel
pulsing quietly causing disharmony with
my breath, my heart beat
I am aware of my toes, my breast
my head, brain, intenstines
The heat between my legs
but deep beneath my stomach there is
a place that feels hollow
and broken
I look at you and can imagine you
full with something
that isn't mine but feels connected
like a cord between our bellies
I am not made to fill you up
but want to give you sustenance
and air to breath and water
I want to press my ear to a seashell
and hear the ocean inside roaring

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My own criticism...
Pretty trite and unoriginal. I don't think there are enough layers of meaning and not so thought provoking. The language isn't enough. I'm not painting a picture or conveying a feeling. Both bits are very unfinished, incomplete.

The first one...I like the rhythm of it, the way it feels ocming out of my mouth. I feel like I can expand it, somewhat. I want to erase it. It isn't what I wanted to say at all. There is so much that isn't there.

The second one...feels a bit lost, masturbatory, waahwaahwahh...Doesn't feel right in my mouth. I like poetry to be spoken. Heard. Become something.

Sprunging

I am going to go on a bike ride. Really, all by myself even. All over the place. Ok, maybe I won't. Well, not today--you know--there is something to be said about sitting on my ass at home for hours on end all by myself. It is beautiful out, though. Warm and sunny and clear. I have gone on good long walks three days in a row. I should keep this momentum going and just go.

I will...
I will...
I will...

The First Day

OK, I am going to try to write at least a few times a week...and substantially too. Not just a few lines or a paragraph or two. We'll see. I have terrible will power.

I want to smoke a cigarette. There. I wrote it. Now, I have to do it. As long as I ignore my urging little addicted voice, I can pretend I haven't even thought about smoking. It is once it gets out, escaping from the recesses of my mind and into the actual world it has total power over me. I hate smoking. That is a lie too, I love smoking. I love it. Everything about it. I look cool smoking. I always have something to do when left alone at the bar for a few minutes because my friend had to step outside and make a call, or use the bathroom, or whatever. I can take the few seconds to rummage through my bag, pull out the small (long) box of Marlboro Lights 100s, extraxt one long, white cigarette from the pack and place it between my lips. Next, the search for matches or a lighter (that works) ensues and lasts a few more precious all alone moments. Once everything is found and in place I can light my cigaretter, breath deeply and sip my luke warm Miller Light (Bottle, never draft) looking like I really belong. Seeming as if being alone is a respite, a joy, nirvana, or at least not at all uncomfortable as I hum along to the music at the bar on the corner that never changes.

I really shouldn't smoke a cigarette because my throat is raw form the Spring pollen that has worked its way into the crevices of my home, choking me as I type and sit and think. But, I have to smoke a cigarette, now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Descriptive Writing.

BLANKBLANKBLANKBLANK

I will come back to descriptive writing later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I smoked a cigarette.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A jug of cheap red wine sits beside my computer desk. Carlo Rossi. It is almost half filled with change. It is the kind of jug that just seems too substantial to throw out in dumpter at the end of the parking lot. We bought the jug of cheap wine to make sangria. Marachino Cherries, Orange Slices, Hawaiin Punch and a cup and a half of sugar. We filled the fridge's top shelf with old plastic pitchers filled with the sticky sweet concoction. Our neighbors invited us over for Mexican food and our Sangria. It was one of those great nights, sitting around the dining room table, eating homemade guacamole and drinking Sangria. We sat and talked for hours. The three of us friends (and lovers) and our neighbors, together until one was sent to Iraq to guard a prison. We were strangers, five women discovering that you just don't have to have a whole lot in common to have everything in common. I don't get to have many nights like that anymore. The kind filled with easy conversation, presonal histories and lofty ideals. Poltics, movies, music, religion, childhood, families, openess. The kind of drunk that makes everyone talk louder, easier but has no regrets in the morning. An evening filled with laughter.

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I find it easy to write these kinds of short paragraphs. Consolodating an event into as few words as possible. I don't know how to expound on an idea. To make events come to life. To take hundreds of words to get it exactly right.