new questions

so what now? now that i've decided to postpone my graduate education, assuming I was going to get in this time. the extra time allows for another stab at the GRE, about 10 solid months of new writing, searching for a mentor, some much needed work experience, i suppose.

(perchance early recitation understood, she has beautiful eyes)

i'm sick of volunteer work. i feel like i'm in the waiting station between college graduation and actual work of substance, some sort of movement toward career goals. i'm glad i got sick last week, gave me an excuse to stay home and do whatever, do nothing. i'm supposed to call the publisher of the Informer on Wednesday. Hopefully, I can get some sort of position there. Even if it's volunteer at first, I need something new.

(lips, yes, they quiver with every kiss)


i need a music giveaway. give me 500 cds of my choice and that should occupy me for a few months.

i need a smoke. i shall take it in a few.

(i can be your lover, i have enough friends)

yeah, the poetry is writing itself at the moment. keep reading.

blanket

-
i stretch
the thought
of your
kiss across
my bed
and fall
asleep between
your lips.
-

two statements to love...

sun: i would die for you.

storm: i can't find a way to kill myself, so, I must kill you.

right now, i'm somewhere in the middle of storm and sun, or maybe i'm on the outside looking in because of a certain someone or maybe because of a few special people. they are walking around inside this room and every now and again, they come to the window of the door and look out at me, smiling. i want to go in, but the last time i did, i had to be carried out by my own heart, which was almost stoned to death. i don't believe my body would have survived without the heart's help. my heart is a resilient muthafucker.

all tomorrow's parties

two men with hats over their faces in the back of a truck, being taken to jail possibly for some vice or other. Ai and her poems will become my poems, new and selected, real and neglected, some tears may be shed, some saved for later. in the end, something new must be known.

i search the eyes of passers-by for the next line, the perfect beginning, a timeless quote, sexual tension, pain, a hello, a silent interest...everyday, at the bookstore, in the coffee shop, on my block, in the car next to mine with the New York license plate...she's from out of town, he wears his shirts inside-out, she has green eyes, i am a leach, yearning for a connection deeper than blood, under the skin, never to be forgotten.

...my job, no job...all i want is to be drunk high and fuck away the night in a black light doom...conjure ghosts to dance with me...hendrix's manic depression, led zeppelin's dazed and confused or california, beck's peaches n cream or new pollution, in succession, just like that, just as i thought, or wrote or both...

i forgot to mention velvet underground...lou reed playing under the veil of an andy warhol triptych...watching eternal sunshine of the spotless mind in someone's back yard hotboxing in a tent on homegrown. and its all in my mind...and then it isn't. nothing, nothing at all, save the packt of sardines in a crushed tin box...epiphanous yet trite, mundane yet star-struck, a crescent moon dying in the equator's arms.

after the show is all tomorrow's parties, dangling from my lover's wrists, some tiffany and co. heartful(less) promise that diamonds are more than metamorphed coal...the earth truly everyone's best friend, although we love her like we love the gutter, all in passing.

is it just a dream?

I am continuing to question my dedication to reaching my goal of graduate study. It's just that there is so much going on in my head, from trying to stay active on the employment search front, to maintaining a grasp of my responsibilities at Africare, then actually bringing together a good sample of my work, which has been sidetracked by the affair with my computer (damage to socket on laptop). I won't make excuses but it seems I must become mechanical with every hour, minute, second of my days in order to complete all the tasks I set before myself on any given day. A schedule must be made and held above my head. I need a smack on the back of the head, good music, some good sex...yes, that would be great motivation, now that I think of it... Ok, so I think about that a lot too.

Today I spent some time in the bookstore reading some contemporary work from Sonia Sanchez, Philip Levine, Li-Young Lee and a few poets published in the Kenyon Review (published by Middlebury College if I'm not mistaken). My online outlets to poetry at the moment are Stirring: A Literary Collection, This So Called Life, and various personal websites run by individuals that have an affinity for certain established writers, from Plath to Komunyakaa to Kevin Young to Sharon Olds to Mark Strand and so on. The more I write, the more ideas I birth for original poems. I am feeding off of the energy, the soul of others writing. I would like to think this is reciprocal and not parasitic, the relationship I share with many who I may never meet or speak to on any terms. Tomorrow, Galway Kinnell, Lucie Brock-Broido continued along with more Columbia faculty, Kyle Dargan (MFA student at Indiana), and so on.

Gotta keep writing. yes.

weekend happenings

I was back in ATL. Homecoming 2004 consisted of a lot of not so old faces, a lot of drinking, and the acceleration of time in between, so quickly, I'm back in DC at work, writing in my journal. I guess there isn't much to say right now or I just don't know what to say. maybe more later...

ps either arrive early to Copeland's party or don't come at all.