AUTHOR.CALHO: If I didn't write it, I would be hitch hiking cross country to Maine and then Alaska in that order. While taking frequent breaks to spread leaflets. And sit in diners. And write on things because I wasn't at a computer. I may still do that in a few years. Writing this also helps me forget about and better understand the limitations of being human, and keeps me busy enough to allow me no free time to burn the world down.

THEMATIC.ABOUT : Collapse often. The things that hold people together and hold them apart and scatter brains. The things that make thoughts go boom. The things that ooh and aah and [expletive deleted]. Sometimes poking around the margins where responsibility ends and the only one to look to is the Original Equipment Manufacturer and say "but, I already pressed 9 for more options and the menus are exactly the same. Can you just replace it?" The answer will be: "please hold." Sometimes hanging out in dark corners. Sometimes following the train tracks. Looking for ways out and ways in and all the while sharing the things seen and heard and done and drawn and written and scorched and healed and teased and caged and dreamed along the way.

12/21/06

a poem 12/21/06

Subject : a poem
Posted Date: : Dec 21, 2006 4:22 AM

(so i insist that i have some chops when it comes to poetry so im going to compose a poem as my blog entry. ignore the double spacing. it means nothing, i just couldnt find out how to turn it off when i hit the enter key. it kind of fucks up the form, but try to bear with it. my style of choice has been deemed prose by some older folks [i actually chewed out a woman 30 years my senior with as many of those years spent writing, but she had the nerve to disqualify one of my entries to her contest as "not poetry at all"] but it is poetry. its my poetry.)

"Food Groups"
he turned his head. to see if he was still bleeding
in the mirror. "nothing to worry about"
i told my hands while they zipped me up. the urinal chuckled,
full of fluid and more satisfied than i can remember being.
i washed my hands to get myself off
but the color stuck. i shot my eyes over my shoulder
to see if i could get a last look at his insides.
i only saw porcelain. later we consumated
our first real fight with rounds of drinks.
the brown leather at his elbow chafed my bare skin
where our arms met on the bar. i didnt mind
his jacket as much as his friendship, but it looked good
on him. i kept my mouth mostly shut
to ease my anger into the weight of the wide bar stool.
my arms refused to move when he suggested
we take it outside. i used his empty coaster
to write down the bartender's number.
she said she was half irish too after smoking his
unfinished cigarette. the amber pool in my
fragile glass didn't go down easy when i finally swallowed.
thats it. thats what ive written. as i typed i could feel chips of rust flying off my knuckles, but i still think its kind of good poem. i should write more. i felt like the seasoned rider who, after going on a vacation to the bahamas, finds themself tangled in their familiar harness when they got home and tried to mount up. its embarassing. but i like it. call it internalized favoritism for myself. or call it shit.

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