-Victoria Finlay's "Colour"
-Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”
-Howard Zinn’s “A People’s History Of The United States Of America”
Do need/want to get around to the following sooner than later….
-Ann Patchett's "Bel Canto"
-Howard Zinn’s “A People’s History Of The United States Of America”
Do need/want to get around to the following sooner than later….
-Ann Patchett's "Bel Canto"
-McSweeney’s #30 reader
-re-read “Nine Stories” for the 4291876539872195th time (on a related note: my future daughter – or, more realistically, future puppy - will be named Esme)
I have spent a bit of time this weekend reading all 3 T Swift cover stories that are currently on the newsstand. No joke. Rolling Stone > Self > Teen Vogue.
On the computer this afternoon, I also unearthed a folder of poetry from a workshop that I HAD to take in college. Oof. I was/am so incredibly lame. Seriously on a scale of 1-10 of lameness, many of these are 13/14/15 level status. I think my ‘travel’ poems are much more sucessful my ‘love’ poems. Here’s an example of each for you, my faithful blog readers. Now you can share the burden of my embarrassment.
“ORD” (11/13/05)
no one has suitcases anymore
just nylon and canvas on wheels
rolling behind their burberry lined coats
and pocohontas boots
backpacks with gel padded straps
bobbing along
attached to the pint-sized
no one has suitcases anymore
except her
here
shabby converse shoes
black horn rimmed glasses
a shy arrogance
a confident innocence
a smirk of ennui
a small suitcase of…
it harks back to days past
when flight attendants were stewardesses
with their towering teased hair-dos
and bona fide smiles
the fighting irish family
all dark blue and gold
dad diligently helping son with fractions
from a text book labeled in fair condition
fair condition like at LGA
in an estimated one hour and thirty-four minutes
fifty-six degrees in mid-november
a man on stand by is
standing by the suitcase girl
wearing his too short suit pants
revealing his mismatched socks
one argyle navy, one argyle black
his hereditary colorblindness
is much like the male pattern baldness
perched upon the head of another man
waiting for his first class boarding call
with only his mother’s father to thank
“The Experiment” (10/1/05)
Here I am
amidst
the crowded cafeteriaauditoriumgymnasium
Tri-fold cardboard
displays are scattered atop the lunch tables with their adjoined
benches, lining the perimeter of the room
My blood once raged in anticipation,
as unpredictable as the vinegar and baking soda lava
threatening to erupt from the papier-mâchéd mountain
The electricity between us
could have held balloons to our untamed hair or woolen sweaters
The coat hanger solar system,
a reminder of the moon you once promised me.
Marigolds grown to a soundtrack of Mozart and Bach are vibrant
Those grown to ‘our song’ shrivel, wither, wilt
I stand beside my project,
Carefully decomposing:
The corsage from the winter formal
A teddy bear
Notes passed behind the teacher’s back
Your favorite sweatshirt that was always two sizes too big
Prepared to explain my predictions, procedure, and conclusive data.
I am deserving of first place recognition.
You award me with only a ribbon of participation.
-re-read “Nine Stories” for the 4291876539872195th time (on a related note: my future daughter – or, more realistically, future puppy - will be named Esme)
I have spent a bit of time this weekend reading all 3 T Swift cover stories that are currently on the newsstand. No joke. Rolling Stone > Self > Teen Vogue.
On the computer this afternoon, I also unearthed a folder of poetry from a workshop that I HAD to take in college. Oof. I was/am so incredibly lame. Seriously on a scale of 1-10 of lameness, many of these are 13/14/15 level status. I think my ‘travel’ poems are much more sucessful my ‘love’ poems. Here’s an example of each for you, my faithful blog readers. Now you can share the burden of my embarrassment.
“ORD” (11/13/05)
no one has suitcases anymore
just nylon and canvas on wheels
rolling behind their burberry lined coats
and pocohontas boots
backpacks with gel padded straps
bobbing along
attached to the pint-sized
no one has suitcases anymore
except her
here
shabby converse shoes
black horn rimmed glasses
a shy arrogance
a confident innocence
a smirk of ennui
a small suitcase of…
it harks back to days past
when flight attendants were stewardesses
with their towering teased hair-dos
and bona fide smiles
the fighting irish family
all dark blue and gold
dad diligently helping son with fractions
from a text book labeled in fair condition
fair condition like at LGA
in an estimated one hour and thirty-four minutes
fifty-six degrees in mid-november
a man on stand by is
standing by the suitcase girl
wearing his too short suit pants
revealing his mismatched socks
one argyle navy, one argyle black
his hereditary colorblindness
is much like the male pattern baldness
perched upon the head of another man
waiting for his first class boarding call
with only his mother’s father to thank
“The Experiment” (10/1/05)
Here I am
amidst
the crowded cafeteriaauditoriumgymnasium
Tri-fold cardboard
displays are scattered atop the lunch tables with their adjoined
benches, lining the perimeter of the room
My blood once raged in anticipation,
as unpredictable as the vinegar and baking soda lava
threatening to erupt from the papier-mâchéd mountain
The electricity between us
could have held balloons to our untamed hair or woolen sweaters
The coat hanger solar system,
a reminder of the moon you once promised me.
Marigolds grown to a soundtrack of Mozart and Bach are vibrant
Those grown to ‘our song’ shrivel, wither, wilt
I stand beside my project,
Carefully decomposing:
The corsage from the winter formal
A teddy bear
Notes passed behind the teacher’s back
Your favorite sweatshirt that was always two sizes too big
Prepared to explain my predictions, procedure, and conclusive data.
I am deserving of first place recognition.
You award me with only a ribbon of participation.
Seriously.
SO BAD!
I’m going to go on record as saying the only reason I managed to eek out a decent grade in this class is because I actually did all the work but mostly because my professor took pity on me for my seriously shitty poetry. Thank you for that Prof. K. Brown. (I’m also sorry for any emails you inadvertently received that were intended for me between 2002-2006.)
I’m going to go on record as saying the only reason I managed to eek out a decent grade in this class is because I actually did all the work but mostly because my professor took pity on me for my seriously shitty poetry. Thank you for that Prof. K. Brown. (I’m also sorry for any emails you inadvertently received that were intended for me between 2002-2006.)
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