5/29/2008
It's all good
she used to think in that situation she'd have a stinging retort & a dagger-stare, but these days she doesn't feel so brave. so she's talking to Him more.
5/27/2008
INTERDICTION
For her house leads down to death and her paths to the spirits of the dead. None who go to her return or attain the paths of life.
Proverbs 2: 18-19
Ha, you haven't met her - she's like Skylla
times ten.
An immortal devastation
a wrought evil
crafty, crafted from the shattered reputations
of old flames, younger brothers, and good friends
everywhere
there is no nightmare or chaos
formed by imagination or bounded by language
that gives expression
to the brevity of her goodness.
Did you catch that? I said
GET OUT OF TOWN -
there is no fighting her. Don't be a fool,
don't trust your
upbringing or your love
of honor or virtue or the-girl-back-home.
Illiadic bravado will get you exactly where
she wants you -
tethered to the mast and raving mad.
Trust me, all that avails is flight.
So flee. I can't believe you're asking this
or I'm answering. It's not like your some holy monk, not with that physique. What's the matter, don't your eyes take in
the deadly shore, pretty bluntly
strewn with the bones of those "enchanted" by eternal evil itself, now
a heroic breed of skeletons.
What?
Me? Jealous?!!!
Fine, Rower-boy, shove off. You just keep surfing that wave, ride the wine-dark sea
into her hell-hole.
Moor and be merry, that's what she'll say,
right before her song shatters your eardrums.
Why must I always try, always warn them. It's not like they ever listen,
and it's certainly not good for my self-esteem.
For her house leads down to death and her paths to the spirits of the dead. None who go to her return or attain the paths of life.
Proverbs 2: 18-19
Ha, you haven't met her - she's like Skylla
times ten.
An immortal devastation
a wrought evil
crafty, crafted from the shattered reputations
of old flames, younger brothers, and good friends
everywhere
there is no nightmare or chaos
formed by imagination or bounded by language
that gives expression
to the brevity of her goodness.
Did you catch that? I said
GET OUT OF TOWN -
there is no fighting her. Don't be a fool,
don't trust your
upbringing or your love
of honor or virtue or the-girl-back-home.
Illiadic bravado will get you exactly where
she wants you -
tethered to the mast and raving mad.
Trust me, all that avails is flight.
So flee. I can't believe you're asking this
or I'm answering. It's not like your some holy monk, not with that physique. What's the matter, don't your eyes take in
the deadly shore, pretty bluntly
strewn with the bones of those "enchanted" by eternal evil itself, now
a heroic breed of skeletons.
What?
Me? Jealous?!!!
Fine, Rower-boy, shove off. You just keep surfing that wave, ride the wine-dark sea
into her hell-hole.
Moor and be merry, that's what she'll say,
right before her song shatters your eardrums.
Why must I always try, always warn them. It's not like they ever listen,
and it's certainly not good for my self-esteem.
Hail, Hail, Lion of Judah
Broken cry at Golgotha.
Torn curtain;
a Roman spear in the last sacrifice, in the hope of Abraham.
His left hand and right are outstretched.
The fingers of the Godhead reach out to clothe me.
I cannot grasp this kind of love.
"Let the little children come unto me."
There are veins starting, wrinkles & sunspots - I'm not a little child anymore. Remember not the sins of my youth... His love is deep enough to swallow the past? My past?
I worship.
"Come, you have have no money, come buy milk and bread."
That statement is ludicrous, a fantastic offer...and then I look around, at all the grubby children, naked & starving.
"Lord, where will we find food for so many?" He replies. But not with words only.
With action.
Three days.
Darkness.
Decay.
Death.
Myrhh and aloe and spices could not conceal it.
Death.
Welfare and education cannot cure it.
I do not have to grasp this love. I just have to hold my cup steady
long enough for it to pour down
and overflow
into the streets.
My street. Your street. His love is a river; the water and the blood flow from wounds. He bleeds for them.
(For us.)
Christ has taken hold of me; I am no longer free/
/Sin the master is no more. I'm done with slavery.
Torn curtain;
a Roman spear in the last sacrifice, in the hope of Abraham.
His left hand and right are outstretched.
The fingers of the Godhead reach out to clothe me.
I cannot grasp this kind of love.
"Let the little children come unto me."
There are veins starting, wrinkles & sunspots - I'm not a little child anymore. Remember not the sins of my youth... His love is deep enough to swallow the past? My past?
I worship.
"Come, you have have no money, come buy milk and bread."
That statement is ludicrous, a fantastic offer...and then I look around, at all the grubby children, naked & starving.
"Lord, where will we find food for so many?" He replies. But not with words only.
With action.
Three days.
Darkness.
Decay.
Death.
Myrhh and aloe and spices could not conceal it.
Death.
Welfare and education cannot cure it.
I do not have to grasp this love. I just have to hold my cup steady
long enough for it to pour down
and overflow
into the streets.
My street. Your street. His love is a river; the water and the blood flow from wounds. He bleeds for them.
(For us.)
Christ has taken hold of me; I am no longer free/
/Sin the master is no more. I'm done with slavery.
5/26/2008
Bhutan: some random thoughts inspired by Nat. Geo
King Wangchuck quietly crossed the hall, the ancient Samteling tiles cold under his royal feet.
He could feel the wheel of heaven turning.
The gardens were spotted softly with lanterns, small red dragons with open mouths, and he walked to a bench and sat, wrapping his long sleeves tightly and tucking his hands close.
It was now, in the dog watch of the night, that the weight of his name pressed him most. He stared at the jet depths of the ornamental pool, blind to the golden glint of koi beneath the surface.
His name.
Jigme Singye Wangchuck -Druk Gyalpo-The Dragon King. Foreign dignitaries knew him as Singye, as did Choden and Pem, his oldest wives. His children when they were small had shyly called him Daddy Druk, and he smiled into the darkness.
Father Dragon.
Had he ever called his own father that, he wondered? Probably.
Dorji, Third Dragon King, was a warm man and an enlightened ruler. He read a great deal. He loved plays and poetry, wine and dancing (and one woman, one woman only). He was the first Bhutanese king to brave the skies in an airplane, and he loved his country with his whole heart.
Once, when Singye was only four year old, Dorji had stood on the steps of Dechencholing Palace and challenged a rioting crowd of hostile lords. They were angry with the way Bhutan was being run, furious with the 24 year old dragon pup who was scorning centuries of tradition by introducing dangerous changes under the guise of "democritization." Yet Dorji had faced them, standing on the steps in the pale October sun. He had been majestic, kingly in his gilded headpiece, as glorious as a priest in the dzong. His advisers refused to appear before the crowd; they were afraid. So he went out without entourage; he was the most striking thing on the horizon, and he knew it. He was their king, and they knew it.
"Our mountains are high, my Lords, but they cannot keep out the wind. The times are changing and we cannot hold back from these changes. And we should not, as long as they are good and bring good things."
Grim faces stared back at him, the faces of men with land, with armies, with ancestors and established houses- men who's mouths dictated what was just and unjust - men with power. King Dorji was going to free the serfs. He was going to end feudalism in Bhutan, and chink away at the wall of ignorance and fear that isolated Bhutan. The young Singye had watched with his nurse from a flanking terraced window, and held tight to her hand. His father sounded almost angry. "Would you have the Druk Yul be a place of peace, or war? For our actions here today do not go unwatched. Kings and princes and peoples of many tongues watch Bhutan."
1971 - Bhutan becomes a member of the United Nations. In painfully acquired English, Dorji makes a fifteen word speech. Lords and dignitaries and princes from the greatest nations under heaven listen to him. Bhutan is attempting the impossible; she is trying to leap the chasm from a Middle Ages form of existence into the 21st century. Dorji is determined that she will succeed. Bhutan is not just a tiny indentation on a hill straddling the China/India border; Bhutan is the Druk Yul "the land of the thunder dragon." Starving peasants and serfs with worn down teeth and hearts need to hear the dragon roar. As does the rabble of lords and nobles still an angry mass before the steps. Dorji was no dragonlet.
"They see our green land and venerable priests; they see our children and our well-tended dzongs. But they also see our starving and sick and broken, our bad roads and one-room hospitals." Your starving. Your sick. Your worked-out men and skeletal women. Your profits, and he looks them in the eye. The lords shift restlessly, feeling foolish in their traditional garb, their antique swords heavily in hand.
"Men of Bhutan, we must make war upon the weaknesses of this land, so that we may hold our banner high in the company of all. I ask you to make this your war, for I have already made it mine, and I wish for brothers-in-arms. Go to battle on your land- it is the end of oppression and hunger and disease!"
A small splash in the pool, and the October crowd disperses and King Singye Wangchuck is back in Samteling Palace garden, alone and aware that he is seeking comfort in ghosts and memories. He puts his chin down on his chest, wishing to be lost in memories again. He is old, and has been Fourth Dragon King since 1972. He was sixteen when Dorji died; he was the youngest monarch in the world, and everything he did for a very long time after, he did for Dorji. But times had changed in Bhutan, and both Dorji and his beloved wife, Queen Ashi Kelzang Chhoedon Wangchuck, were at rest under a green hill in Thimphu.
With the rising sun would come more changes. Assamese separatists had been using Bhutanese territory to launch raids against targets in India, and Bhutan was an ally of India. Singye had spent most of his rule fostering good relations with the giants of China and India. Bhutan was just a sliver of untouched forest between them, and if India decided that the Switzerland-sized nation was hosting terrorists, it could be the end of their autonomy.
Singye pondered his options.
But in his heart, he knew he was going to declare war. His adrenaline surged.
War.
The first military campaign in over a hundred years, and it came under the reign of the Fourth Dragon.
(good grief. so this is why you have to plan a plot BEFORE you start writing. well, wangchuck, you are boring. I'm gonna let you freeze your little Himalayan butt off staring at the pond full of koi until you decide you're gonna do something. Sheesh. You do have four wives, after all...)
He could feel the wheel of heaven turning.
The gardens were spotted softly with lanterns, small red dragons with open mouths, and he walked to a bench and sat, wrapping his long sleeves tightly and tucking his hands close.
It was now, in the dog watch of the night, that the weight of his name pressed him most. He stared at the jet depths of the ornamental pool, blind to the golden glint of koi beneath the surface.
His name.
Jigme Singye Wangchuck -Druk Gyalpo-The Dragon King. Foreign dignitaries knew him as Singye, as did Choden and Pem, his oldest wives. His children when they were small had shyly called him Daddy Druk, and he smiled into the darkness.
Father Dragon.
Had he ever called his own father that, he wondered? Probably.
Dorji, Third Dragon King, was a warm man and an enlightened ruler. He read a great deal. He loved plays and poetry, wine and dancing (and one woman, one woman only). He was the first Bhutanese king to brave the skies in an airplane, and he loved his country with his whole heart.
Once, when Singye was only four year old, Dorji had stood on the steps of Dechencholing Palace and challenged a rioting crowd of hostile lords. They were angry with the way Bhutan was being run, furious with the 24 year old dragon pup who was scorning centuries of tradition by introducing dangerous changes under the guise of "democritization." Yet Dorji had faced them, standing on the steps in the pale October sun. He had been majestic, kingly in his gilded headpiece, as glorious as a priest in the dzong. His advisers refused to appear before the crowd; they were afraid. So he went out without entourage; he was the most striking thing on the horizon, and he knew it. He was their king, and they knew it.
"Our mountains are high, my Lords, but they cannot keep out the wind. The times are changing and we cannot hold back from these changes. And we should not, as long as they are good and bring good things."
Grim faces stared back at him, the faces of men with land, with armies, with ancestors and established houses- men who's mouths dictated what was just and unjust - men with power. King Dorji was going to free the serfs. He was going to end feudalism in Bhutan, and chink away at the wall of ignorance and fear that isolated Bhutan. The young Singye had watched with his nurse from a flanking terraced window, and held tight to her hand. His father sounded almost angry. "Would you have the Druk Yul be a place of peace, or war? For our actions here today do not go unwatched. Kings and princes and peoples of many tongues watch Bhutan."
1971 - Bhutan becomes a member of the United Nations. In painfully acquired English, Dorji makes a fifteen word speech. Lords and dignitaries and princes from the greatest nations under heaven listen to him. Bhutan is attempting the impossible; she is trying to leap the chasm from a Middle Ages form of existence into the 21st century. Dorji is determined that she will succeed. Bhutan is not just a tiny indentation on a hill straddling the China/India border; Bhutan is the Druk Yul "the land of the thunder dragon." Starving peasants and serfs with worn down teeth and hearts need to hear the dragon roar. As does the rabble of lords and nobles still an angry mass before the steps. Dorji was no dragonlet.
"They see our green land and venerable priests; they see our children and our well-tended dzongs. But they also see our starving and sick and broken, our bad roads and one-room hospitals." Your starving. Your sick. Your worked-out men and skeletal women. Your profits, and he looks them in the eye. The lords shift restlessly, feeling foolish in their traditional garb, their antique swords heavily in hand.
"Men of Bhutan, we must make war upon the weaknesses of this land, so that we may hold our banner high in the company of all. I ask you to make this your war, for I have already made it mine, and I wish for brothers-in-arms. Go to battle on your land- it is the end of oppression and hunger and disease!"
A small splash in the pool, and the October crowd disperses and King Singye Wangchuck is back in Samteling Palace garden, alone and aware that he is seeking comfort in ghosts and memories. He puts his chin down on his chest, wishing to be lost in memories again. He is old, and has been Fourth Dragon King since 1972. He was sixteen when Dorji died; he was the youngest monarch in the world, and everything he did for a very long time after, he did for Dorji. But times had changed in Bhutan, and both Dorji and his beloved wife, Queen Ashi Kelzang Chhoedon Wangchuck, were at rest under a green hill in Thimphu.
With the rising sun would come more changes. Assamese separatists had been using Bhutanese territory to launch raids against targets in India, and Bhutan was an ally of India. Singye had spent most of his rule fostering good relations with the giants of China and India. Bhutan was just a sliver of untouched forest between them, and if India decided that the Switzerland-sized nation was hosting terrorists, it could be the end of their autonomy.
Singye pondered his options.
But in his heart, he knew he was going to declare war. His adrenaline surged.
War.
The first military campaign in over a hundred years, and it came under the reign of the Fourth Dragon.
(good grief. so this is why you have to plan a plot BEFORE you start writing. well, wangchuck, you are boring. I'm gonna let you freeze your little Himalayan butt off staring at the pond full of koi until you decide you're gonna do something. Sheesh. You do have four wives, after all...)
this CAT
she walks over & drapes her fatfurry stomach all over the keyboard.
i wake up & she's licking the skin off my left eyelid.
there is nothing i can do if she wants to lay there- apparently she has a monopoly on sunshine.
whenever i walk through the door, she will bring me a gift - a little lizard tail with the back feet still dangling, or a the antennae of a cokeroach.
she dominates the room. i should be thankful she doesn't shed.
its strange. when i pet her i forget & usually end up hollering upstairs for you.
thats when the silence hurts the most
& i sorta hate her purring.
doesn't she know this house isn't supposed to be so cheerful?
i wake up & she's licking the skin off my left eyelid.
there is nothing i can do if she wants to lay there- apparently she has a monopoly on sunshine.
whenever i walk through the door, she will bring me a gift - a little lizard tail with the back feet still dangling, or a the antennae of a cokeroach.
she dominates the room. i should be thankful she doesn't shed.
its strange. when i pet her i forget & usually end up hollering upstairs for you.
thats when the silence hurts the most
& i sorta hate her purring.
doesn't she know this house isn't supposed to be so cheerful?
5/25/2008
After reading Romans 9
He raised an indignant hand, calling for silence. I saw his face
and the mirrored irritation in the eyes of the whole synagogue. Again,
he raised his right hand - and my heart shattered -
o my brother!
I could wish myself cut off from the Water of Life if it would let you drink
(your own prophets have spoken it: if you stand, you will be shattered; the ram's horn & silver trumpet will not avail)
you walk through Netanya, Rehovot and Rishon Lezion,
the scowl of centuries still furrowing your brow;
you are diligent. you mix the charoseth & you call for Elijah - but the aficomen is just so much broken matzo.
You hope obstinately & you will not listen-yet you walk in fear and call it tradition.
you sneer, you call us "messianics" and everyday you
stumble on
the Rock of ages.
I weep for you, men of my race. He wept blood for you, men of my ancestry.
It is not as if God's word has failed
though my heart may fail;
Sarah had a son and Abraham was faithful,
but not all who descend from Israel are Israel -
o men of my race, why do you exchange your inheritance of glory for the shards of old scrolls?
For I could wish myself cursed...
You strong-jawed men, you busy-handed women - you are the rightful heirs! Yours is the adoption,
the legacy of divine glory,
the covenants,
the receiving of the law,
the temple worship
and the promises;
Yours are the patriarchs; men like Moses and Issac and Jacob and Joshua and Gideon and Abraham!
You have been accorded honor upon honor, if only you will don the wedding garment. You have been given the leading battalion, a place of glory in the ranks of a victorious army.
You are first-born. Take this pride and make your synagogue the dwelling of a mighty king! Ah, this unceasing anguish! Do you not see that from your blood & sinew is traced the human ancestry of Christ?
His hand is no longer upraised -It is withered. The time for waiting is past and in horror I see
that the synagogue has become
a tomb - the Torah lies unmolded amid the moldering dessication.
They would not shift camp, they would not follow the pillar of fire and cloud incarnate;
yet he came, he became One who's face glows like coals & he carries the Book and eternity surrounds him.
O Israel, O Israel. He loves you with an everlasting love,
come! COME!
and the mirrored irritation in the eyes of the whole synagogue. Again,
he raised his right hand - and my heart shattered -
o my brother!
I could wish myself cut off from the Water of Life if it would let you drink
(your own prophets have spoken it: if you stand, you will be shattered; the ram's horn & silver trumpet will not avail)
you walk through Netanya, Rehovot and Rishon Lezion,
the scowl of centuries still furrowing your brow;
you are diligent. you mix the charoseth & you call for Elijah - but the aficomen is just so much broken matzo.
You hope obstinately & you will not listen-yet you walk in fear and call it tradition.
you sneer, you call us "messianics" and everyday you
stumble on
the Rock of ages.
I weep for you, men of my race. He wept blood for you, men of my ancestry.
It is not as if God's word has failed
though my heart may fail;
Sarah had a son and Abraham was faithful,
but not all who descend from Israel are Israel -
o men of my race, why do you exchange your inheritance of glory for the shards of old scrolls?
For I could wish myself cursed...
You strong-jawed men, you busy-handed women - you are the rightful heirs! Yours is the adoption,
the legacy of divine glory,
the covenants,
the receiving of the law,
the temple worship
and the promises;
Yours are the patriarchs; men like Moses and Issac and Jacob and Joshua and Gideon and Abraham!
You have been accorded honor upon honor, if only you will don the wedding garment. You have been given the leading battalion, a place of glory in the ranks of a victorious army.
You are first-born. Take this pride and make your synagogue the dwelling of a mighty king! Ah, this unceasing anguish! Do you not see that from your blood & sinew is traced the human ancestry of Christ?
His hand is no longer upraised -It is withered. The time for waiting is past and in horror I see
that the synagogue has become
a tomb - the Torah lies unmolded amid the moldering dessication.
They would not shift camp, they would not follow the pillar of fire and cloud incarnate;
yet he came, he became One who's face glows like coals & he carries the Book and eternity surrounds him.
O Israel, O Israel. He loves you with an everlasting love,
come! COME!
5/13/2008
it is written
Psalm 15
A psalm of David.
1 LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Who may live on your holy hill?
2 He whose walk is blameless
and who does what is righteous,
who speaks the truth from his heart
3 and has no slander on his tongue,
who does his neighbor no wrong
and casts no slur on his fellowman,
4 who despises a vile man
but honors those who fear the LORD,
who keeps his oath
even when it hurts,
5 who lends his money without usury
and does not accept a bribe against the innocent.
He who does these things
will never be shaken.
it is written
"Do not spread false reports. Do not help a wicked man by being a malicious witness.Do not follow the crowd in doing wrong. When you give testimony in a lawsuit, do not pervert justice by siding with the crowd, and do not show favoritism to a poor man in his lawsuit."Exodus 23:1-3
it is written
"Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place."
Psalm 28:2
it is written
"David said to Gad, 'I am in deep distress. Let us fall into the hands of the LORD, for his mercy is great; but do not let me fall into the hands of men.'" Samuel 24:14
it is written
"Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed." Psalm 57:1
it is written
"Even though I was once a blasphemer and a persecutor and a violent man, I was shown mercy because I acted in ignorance and unbelief."
1 Timothy 1:13
it is written
"Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." Hebrews 4:16
it is written
"And forgive your people, who have sinned against you; forgive all the offenses they have committed against you, and cause their conquerors to show them mercy..."
1 Kings 8:50
it is written
"Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?"
Matthew 18:33
it is written
"Take your brother also and go back to the man at once. And may God Almighty grant you mercy before the man so that he will let your other brother and Benjamin come back with you. As for me...I am bereaved, I am bereaved."
Genesis 43:13-15
A psalm of David.
1 LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Who may live on your holy hill?
2 He whose walk is blameless
and who does what is righteous,
who speaks the truth from his heart
3 and has no slander on his tongue,
who does his neighbor no wrong
and casts no slur on his fellowman,
4 who despises a vile man
but honors those who fear the LORD,
who keeps his oath
even when it hurts,
5 who lends his money without usury
and does not accept a bribe against the innocent.
He who does these things
will never be shaken.
it is written
"Do not spread false reports. Do not help a wicked man by being a malicious witness.Do not follow the crowd in doing wrong. When you give testimony in a lawsuit, do not pervert justice by siding with the crowd, and do not show favoritism to a poor man in his lawsuit."Exodus 23:1-3
it is written
"Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place."
Psalm 28:2
it is written
"David said to Gad, 'I am in deep distress. Let us fall into the hands of the LORD, for his mercy is great; but do not let me fall into the hands of men.'" Samuel 24:14
it is written
"Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed." Psalm 57:1
it is written
"Even though I was once a blasphemer and a persecutor and a violent man, I was shown mercy because I acted in ignorance and unbelief."
1 Timothy 1:13
it is written
"Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." Hebrews 4:16
it is written
"And forgive your people, who have sinned against you; forgive all the offenses they have committed against you, and cause their conquerors to show them mercy..."
1 Kings 8:50
it is written
"Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?"
Matthew 18:33
it is written
"Take your brother also and go back to the man at once. And may God Almighty grant you mercy before the man so that he will let your other brother and Benjamin come back with you. As for me...I am bereaved, I am bereaved."
Genesis 43:13-15
5/12/2008
Faithfulness
Slaughter & skin for their nakedness,
gopher wood beneath the darkening sky.
Forgiveness for beauty & her lying husband
and new names for both of them.
Shorn hair but a brave finish - deliverance from oppression.
Thirsty camels and a strong-hearted kinswoman
just in the nick of time.
And what about lions and honey? Lions with closed mouths?
Lions in pits as snowflakes cover the sand?
He has always been faithful.
gopher wood beneath the darkening sky.
Forgiveness for beauty & her lying husband
and new names for both of them.
Shorn hair but a brave finish - deliverance from oppression.
Thirsty camels and a strong-hearted kinswoman
just in the nick of time.
And what about lions and honey? Lions with closed mouths?
Lions in pits as snowflakes cover the sand?
He has always been faithful.
5/11/2008
She DYES HER HAIR!!!
i can't wait on God
because
because i don't know if he was planning on picking up a package of Garnier Fructise
and transforming sandy to cinnamon red.
because
because i don't know if he was planning on picking up a package of Garnier Fructise
and transforming sandy to cinnamon red.
a new record
maybe i can write a love poem tonight,
something
so i can walk out of this cafe justified.
who knew being in Paris in the springtime could be so mundane;
i've seen more drains and dogcatchers than dreamy-eyed girls
a walk down the Rue Delambre yeilded nothing, no inspiration, and both my socks
are wet beyond the toe.
I question my muse as i refuge from grimy sky and street,
clutching not a masterpiece of profound literary merit, but only
a sodden copy of today's Liberation.
The greyish daylight faded into rainy twilight about an hour ago,
and as i sit here with hands done over in undeserved inkblots
my thoughts are dismal: i can't even write
a sonnet
or a charming couplet
or even a depressed, angsty paragraph about the marble of the fountains
made paler by the rain;
right now i doubt i could write my own
name with confidence, i don't think the vowels would fit somehow.
Mon Dieu, who knew being a starving artist would be such a trial!
something
so i can walk out of this cafe justified.
who knew being in Paris in the springtime could be so mundane;
i've seen more drains and dogcatchers than dreamy-eyed girls
a walk down the Rue Delambre yeilded nothing, no inspiration, and both my socks
are wet beyond the toe.
I question my muse as i refuge from grimy sky and street,
clutching not a masterpiece of profound literary merit, but only
a sodden copy of today's Liberation.
The greyish daylight faded into rainy twilight about an hour ago,
and as i sit here with hands done over in undeserved inkblots
my thoughts are dismal: i can't even write
a sonnet
or a charming couplet
or even a depressed, angsty paragraph about the marble of the fountains
made paler by the rain;
right now i doubt i could write my own
name with confidence, i don't think the vowels would fit somehow.
Mon Dieu, who knew being a starving artist would be such a trial!
5/02/2008
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