my book has more bookmarks than pages

listening to transatlanticism and a creepy yellowstone mix on the bus ride home after a day in stratford-on-avon where the self-costumed shakespeare tour guides recite robert frost poems from the cat's perspective and we don't think twice about a dish called chocolate indulgence ice cream and seeing the royal shakespeare company perform a rather unresolved play (in a good way) all the while having some kind of strange ear ache that makes me wonder if perhaps i should turn the music down puts one in this kind of mood. one being me. so i came home and looked through some of my old writing, you know when i actually used to write instead of just pretending i do.


found this.
i think it was born out of a magnetic poetry kit that ash gave me my senior year of high school three days after turning 18 at classic skating.

if romance was a library,
i would stock old spirit
under drama.

that stanza never found a home, but it's a nice thought.

and we'll post this more recent one for kicks because all of my narrative blogs are boring. also to prove to my london friends that i am not a hater, and i'm capable of sentimentality.

(i probably should preface it with some explanation. if you don't know who andy kaufmann is, google him. if you have the song on hand, imagine listening to "man on the moon" by r.e.m. while driving around in late winter south-eastern idaho and it might make some more sense.)

No one should ever write love poems

Explaining Andy Kaufmann
and the carousel of stars around
the fixed North Star, you impersonate
a guarantee.

Falling in like, I sit Indian-style and
my left foot falls asleep while
the horses in the fields debate whether
it’s a hoax

or not. Because while you explain
Andy Kaufmann, I am hardly in a hurry.
The sun hisses into the Snake River before
this moon man

fools me into believing he’s ailing and
spinning from his North Star. You
squeeze my hand and wonder which
way is up

in our skewed galaxy. I’ve never
thought of it that way but falling
into like on dirt roads that lead

to the same places paved ones
do threatens the retention of
clichés. They may wrestle out,
and like kicked-up sand in my eyes,

defeat the strongest woman in the world.

(blogs that happen when you stay up late)

cheers.