Rolling In The Deep

on a three-hour flight home
in a b-seat between two snorers
complimentary head phones
make me sing out loud.


Bad Poem

it's my bf's birthday and I'm away. my brain is cluttered.
here's a poem i wrote today. not sure what it's called yet.

stuff. stuff. stuff.
stuff. stuff. stuff. stuff.

here's another poem I wrote called Dear B.

I'd bake you a cake,
chocolate, I think.
If only I could
bake. Oh, how I miss 
your face!

Yes, I'm making real progress.


The Ox is Plowing Again

I’ve been freezing since Friday so last night I climbed the furniture and shut the vent. I’m a lot like a corpse on the outside, but on the inside I’m overheating all the time.

Yesterday I learned that every poem I’ve ever written sucks and I should re-write them all. It sounds overwhelming but I’m sure it’s not if I just start at the beginning and never finish.

Another option is to let them all go
let go 
in some zen self-helpish kind of way
and then set them on fire,
which sounds easier but
also sucks.

Yesterday I took these awesome notes during a lecture:
The ox would plow to the end of the field and then turn around again.

Yesterday my notes made sense.
Today I have no idea what the hell that ox was doing.

On my reading list:
Army Cats by Tom Sleigh.


Prompts & Warm-ups

Direction: employ mise-en-scene and montage theory.

I use 60 seconds of my time to walk out into the courtyard and thaw.
Then I pray. Brilliance, come to me!

I scribble something about an old staircase and rice (is food all I think about?).
I won't share it here because it's, you know, too brilliant.

On my reading list:

“See the cat? The cat has feline leukemic indecisiveness. He is losing his fur, and his cheeks are hurting him terribly, and he bleeds from out of his nose and his ears. His eyes are bad. He can hardly see you. He has put his face in his litter box because sometimes that makes his cheeks feel better, but now his paws are hurting and his bladder is getting nervous and there is the feeling at the tip of his tail that comes every day at noon. It’s like someone’s put it in their mouth and they’re chewing and chewing.
Suffer, cat, suffer!”

A Better Angel: Stories
A Child’s Book of Sickness and Death, Chris Adrian