In earnest

I wrote this some months ago, but I feel like a lot of it still applies now. This was sort of a candid poem.

My caffeinated consciousness will not let me rest.
I lay and type, and I ponder the decisions that will decide
the horrid immediacy that is everything upcoming.
Even more so I think about no longer laying
like a Lego that is scattered afar from matching pieces.
Why do I no longer pray, and look for answers
that come in the form of an odd shape in my eggs,
or the dirt pattern on my shoe,
or the cup of my morning of coffee?
That coffee... ahh that was heavenly,
and maybe I described it so for a reason.
Or maybe the tangible taste meant more to me than
box top riddles, or tragic happenings
people just assume are meant for the better,
so that they can cope with the crappy conundrums
we call bits of suffering.
Ah please matching Lego pieces where could you be?
Where are the pieces that allow me to connect
to others that are shaped similar in size?

Of course there is the one that is shaped so perfectly,
that my piece will conjoin with it
in a union of stability.
And our pieces will strengthen
our pending project.

No X's and O's just poetry

I was going to blog about how much the Raiders sucked today, but I don't think anybody who follows this blog will enjoy my X's and O's analysis of how the Raiders' breakdown in pass protection led to their eventual undoing. (That may or may not have been a run-on sentence.)

Anyway, instead I'm going to post a Sharon Olds poem. Sharon's poems are really candid. They don't hold much back, and that's what I like about them. They're sometimes awkward, sometimes funny, sometimes erotic, and sometimes a little bit of everything. Usually they're about life, and life's little experiences. Anyway, here's a poem called "Last Night." I'm sure you can figure out what this is about.

Last Night
by Sharon Olds

The next day, I am almost afraid.
Love? It was more like dragonflies
in the sun, 100 degrees at noon,
the ends of their abdomens stuck together, I
close my eyes when I remember. I hardly
knew myself, like something twisting and
twisting out of a chrysalis,
enormous, without language, all
head, all shut eyes, and the humming
like madness, the way they writhe away,
and do not leave, back, back,
away, back. Did I know you? No kiss,
no tenderness---more like killing, death-grip
holding to life, genitals
like violent hands clasped tight
barely moving, more like being closed
in a great jaw and eaten, and the screaming
I groan to remember it, and when we started
to die, then I refuse to remember,
the way a drunkard forgets. After,
you held my hands extremely hard as my
body moved in shudders like the ferry when its
axle is loosed past engagement, you kept me
sealed exactly against you, our hairlines
wet as the arc of a gateway after
a cloudburst, you secured me in your arms till I slept---
that was love, and we woke in the morning
clasped, fragrant, buoyant, that was
the morning after love.

An old poem

I wrote this when I was still in college.

My Professor Sucks

If I could be anywhere I'd be in bed with her.
Away from this professor, and his monotone of inexperience.
Unsure, his swagger lacking lecture destroys the class' attention span
like a vicatin kills off pain.

I'd rather be just waking up with her.
Holding her delicately clothed self
and taking in the sweet warmth from her chocolate skin.
Feeling her breath and her little twitches
and awaiting our awakening so that we can be
each other's morning caffeine rush.

Afterwards, when her black like coffee hair
is draped on my pillows, and we're done living inside of us
I'll open my eyes and be back in class.
Thinking about yesterday in its majesty, and looking toward tomorrow.
And plotting my map to explore every inch of her being.

Getting Home

How do you get home when you've never had one?
You take classes to get there,
but they lead to mere missed opportunities.
Those crappy codes were meant to
crack a safe that can only be opened by a specific key.
Cocktails, bikes, chat rooms, etc...
they've all worked as road maps
for many weary travelers, but not for all.
Perhaps the answer lie not in the sprawl,
but deep in a meadow where music is infinite
and mixed company conjugate.

The map is mysteriously missing.
Creativity seems to be the clue.