Tangled

I hate how sometimes, what is right and what feels right are different things. How sometimes I get mad when I should be compassionate, or forgive when I shouldn't forget. I hate how sometimes I am tangled up in relationships I don't know how to sort out, and that even when you try really hard to reach out for new beginnings, sometimes the things you love most are part of your past. Lately, I'm really struggling to remind myself to stay centered and honest about what I need in my life. There seems to be so many possible distractions and obstacles in my path...and I don't even know where I'm ultimately headed yet.

I've had a long and exhausting month...but finally Spring Quarter has arrived! Last week's break was a blur of little boys and soccer practice topped off with a few parties and a wicked cold (that I am still struggling to get over). Luckily both my classes today were cancelled, so I was able to sleep in a little bit. I've probably spent more money on tissues and cold medicine than food this week...so that's pretty lame. But I'm excited to get started with my classes this quarter and see how enormous my work load is going to be. My reading list is pretty intense (Kafka and all kinds of surrealist literature...ohhhh brother!).

Anyway, here's revised version of a poem I wrote for class last quarter. It was supposed to mimc an Andre Breton poem where "listing" was the main form. Not sure if it's finished or not, but here it is.

My House

My house whose center is a rocking chair

That sits on a foundation made

of knock-knock jokes and go-fish games.

With screen doors that slam on summer nights,

sweet with the smell of fresh-shucked corn.

My house with rafters that are spiders’ sand dunes.

And crooked, wooden stairs;

thirteen gnarled steps, and walls

that saw my shorter shadows play.

My house that is always a project.

With drywall tape

that’s peeling up like pursed lips

and overflowing planter boxes,

that are not boxes but acres.

My house where waxy succulents devour window space

and the floors wear Persian rugs.

Where the shelves are always packed

with jams and honey, but mostly books.

My house whose backyard is where bicycles go to die.

With walls that are painted colors and not shades;

whose layout is a maze of small rooms,

each overflowing with garage sale finds

and grand ideas about selling things online.

My house that talks at night;

murmuring muddled vowels from the faucets,

groaning in the weight of wind,

telling stories.