ordinary

she empties her pockets after work
spare change falling into
collapsing hills on her desk
thinking that she should put something there
(a jar, or cup)
to collect the meandering mess
the handfuls of used presidents
and borrowed time
accumulated and dispersed
edges softened from years
of linty pockets and sweaty hands

maybe she could find something pretty
she thinks
maybe a little fishbowl
yes
that could be nice
a little fishbowl

she pictures it there
as she exchanges
one pair of pants for another
one crumpled shirt for another
pictures it as she contemplates taking a bath
(the warm water would be nice,
the bubbles,
maybe a scented candle)

she pictures it there
the roundly transparent host
to different versions of the same colors
little drops of metal that dully sparkle
in the tired yellow light
of bulbs which buzz a bereaved protest
before flickering into an begrudging glow
that subtly fades with the hours
peeking over its shoulder from time to time
to see if anyone has noticed its retreat

little drops of metal
touched thoughtlessly by thousands before her
to be touched by thousands more,
carelessly,
each so accustomed to the other's presence
that neither looks up from the paper
to say good morning

these things,
so ordinary,
to be dropped in a bowl made for fishes
and transformed, temporarily,
into something satisfyingly quaint

this one, too

what joy is there to be found
in this world?
what sorrow?
and yet here is something
that might be found.
this moment.

this

sigh

what sorry days, these,
which chatter endlessly on and on
yet say nothing.
cicadas singing in
the evening
tell me more
than do a day's worth
of garbled urban tasks
ticking past
with fastidious
disdain
even as i disdain them.

what discontent, this,
which demands that i should
seek the unfulfilled life
when i seek
to seek
nothing
and, so,
fail.

So the economy sucks.

Just sayin'.

Fast Car

Some songs are so intimate, so precise, so....

Some songs, rather than being a soundtrack to our lives, are our lives. We are the soundtrack.

It's amazing how my entire life can fit inside of a song, comfortably, nostagically, perfectly.


PS The idea of Tracy Chapman and Alice Walker being together is shatteringly beautiful and ridiculously hot.

A Dream of Trees

Here is your un-daily poem! Brought to you by Kate.


A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments,
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?


--Mary Oliver

Unintentional Voyeurism

Today in the gym, I noticed how much I wasn't male. Every other person in there was a male, except for the occasional sorority girl who tore herself away from the ellipticals long enough to work her inner thighs, only to scurry back up the stairs on her way to a frighteningly low BMI.

Watching, for the first time, these men, I grew more and more nauseated--figuratively speaking. Watching the guys there work out felt like accidental voyeurism, as if I had drunkenly stumbled into the men's locker room after a football game and caught them in the middle of a circle jerk. Awkwardly, I could not look away. This narcissism was beyond masturbatory. It wasn't just that they were pleasuring themselves, it wasn't just a quick release in the bathroom, it was that they were actually having sex with themselves.

You should see these guys look in the mirrors as they pump their arms. They literally thrust after every motion. I am not kidding you. I saw this happen. Repeatedly. Invariably. Tragically.

And after the thrust they flex again!--expelling a digusting kind of grunting/straining noise that could have been recorded as audio for a cheap porno. I believe that any guy there had the power to replicate himself, he would do it just to watch himself give himself blow jobs. It would be the ultimate fantasy.

Oh, and has anyone else noticed that straight guys only care about their arm muscles? They move from arm machine to arm machine, thrusting, grunting, looking in the mirror and all, but never work anything else. I don't know about you, but that gorilla walk really does it for me....