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Feb. 6th, 2006
Alright, I need to admit my amazing superpower: I multiply food.
There are some specific conditions for this multiplication. It must be a cauldronful of food that I'm making. It must be vaguely liquid, like soup or chili.
I then, inevitably, whether I'm working on a $3 budget with a seven-gallon pot or whatever, overflow the pot and make enough food for a small army.
As a random note, everytime I go walking with Bevan, I sprain my big toe. I think it's cause I'm taking long steps, and thus kicking off at a greater angle.
As another random note, I still love everyone.
There are some specific conditions for this multiplication. It must be a cauldronful of food that I'm making. It must be vaguely liquid, like soup or chili.
I then, inevitably, whether I'm working on a $3 budget with a seven-gallon pot or whatever, overflow the pot and make enough food for a small army.
As a random note, everytime I go walking with Bevan, I sprain my big toe. I think it's cause I'm taking long steps, and thus kicking off at a greater angle.
As another random note, I still love everyone.
Three Love Poems And...
Feb. 6th, 2006 11:02 pmThe Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy by Jeffrey McDaniel
( Read more... )I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, haven't developed antibodies
for your smile. I don't know long regret existed
before humans hammered a word on it, or how many
paper towels it would take to wipe up the Pacific Ocean,
or why the light of a candle being blown out
travels faster than the luminescence of one that's freshly lit,
but I do know all our huffing and puffing
into the other's throat--as if the heart was a birthday cake
covered with trick candles--didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses I scribbled
on your neck were written in disappearing ink, sorry
this poem took thirteen years to reach you.( Read more... )
Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem by Bob Hicok
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. ( Read more... )
Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
Variation on the Word Sleep by Margaret Atwood
( Read more... )
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully,( Read more... )
This space, externally imposed nights alone, is drawing to an end.
I've been thinking about what it means to be *with* someone. When I was with Kynnin for seven years, or with Juggler for ...can it be coming on three now? Maybe two? And you've spent so many events together, and so many words have passed between you, are you after all closer to who the other person really is? Or is all your knowing of them built up into a screen of expectation behind which you don't see the person at all? Certainly I feel close to many people lately-- close in many different ways, but close nonetheless. I've told you about Graham's facial expressions. I haven't told you about the kind of dead-certain predictable/intuitiveness of some of my interactions with Juggler. I haven't told you about so many smaller things-- a chance word here and there by Bevan, a fit of laughter and a shared glance with Beth, grooves of experiences with Tillie stretching into the past like the parallel ruts of wagon wheels in mud, the sound of two Chris's voices raised in the so-familiar sounds of not-quite-argument, the drape of a body in bed. These flashes of closeness are very intense, and remind me of, oh, the other times when my nights were full of solitude like this. I think one appreciates it more, when it's not always there.
I've been thinking, too, about what falling in love means for me. I've always done it easily, quickly and hard, as CrazyChris says, 'Greenie, you're long-term. Be careful.' I'm starting to max out, I think. I'm starting to have enough sticky-attachment-love-intrusive-entanglements with people in that part of my soul that there's nothing to reach out and get snagged on stray passers-by. Passing attractions and interests happen, but the click doesn't. Well, not as often, any rate.
G'night, y'all. Sleep well.
( Read more... )I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, haven't developed antibodies
for your smile. I don't know long regret existed
before humans hammered a word on it, or how many
paper towels it would take to wipe up the Pacific Ocean,
or why the light of a candle being blown out
travels faster than the luminescence of one that's freshly lit,
but I do know all our huffing and puffing
into the other's throat--as if the heart was a birthday cake
covered with trick candles--didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses I scribbled
on your neck were written in disappearing ink, sorry
this poem took thirteen years to reach you.( Read more... )
Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem by Bob Hicok
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. ( Read more... )
Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
Variation on the Word Sleep by Margaret Atwood
( Read more... )
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully,( Read more... )
This space, externally imposed nights alone, is drawing to an end.
I've been thinking about what it means to be *with* someone. When I was with Kynnin for seven years, or with Juggler for ...can it be coming on three now? Maybe two? And you've spent so many events together, and so many words have passed between you, are you after all closer to who the other person really is? Or is all your knowing of them built up into a screen of expectation behind which you don't see the person at all? Certainly I feel close to many people lately-- close in many different ways, but close nonetheless. I've told you about Graham's facial expressions. I haven't told you about the kind of dead-certain predictable/intuitiveness of some of my interactions with Juggler. I haven't told you about so many smaller things-- a chance word here and there by Bevan, a fit of laughter and a shared glance with Beth, grooves of experiences with Tillie stretching into the past like the parallel ruts of wagon wheels in mud, the sound of two Chris's voices raised in the so-familiar sounds of not-quite-argument, the drape of a body in bed. These flashes of closeness are very intense, and remind me of, oh, the other times when my nights were full of solitude like this. I think one appreciates it more, when it's not always there.
I've been thinking, too, about what falling in love means for me. I've always done it easily, quickly and hard, as CrazyChris says, 'Greenie, you're long-term. Be careful.' I'm starting to max out, I think. I'm starting to have enough sticky-attachment-love-intrusive-entanglements with people in that part of my soul that there's nothing to reach out and get snagged on stray passers-by. Passing attractions and interests happen, but the click doesn't. Well, not as often, any rate.
G'night, y'all. Sleep well.