This week, I had the itch to record some audio. So here's "With Love" for you, a poem I wrote last fall.
A while ago, I looked myself up at Klout, which supposedly measures your social media influence. It points out who you interact with most via social media, and mentions topics that you are supposedly influential about. It used to say that I was influential about "neurosis," "wine," "helium," and "mattress." Somewhat true (well, not the helium bit), I suppose, though I'm quite happy that the currently listed topics are a little more aligned with my actual interests (the site now mentions that I'm allegedly influential about "spoken word," "authors," "disorders," and still, "helium").
Some of my poems definitely have a neurotic tone to them. I don't know if it's necessarily a bad thing--I like to think that while they might sound a bit strange/obsessive, they are also playful and giddy (Woody Allen meets Peewee Herman). Is neurotic always negative, do you think? How would you characterize your writing voice?
Hope you enjoy the (very neurotic!) "With Love."
With Love by The Storialist
Showing posts with label With Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label With Love. Show all posts
Friday, October 28, 2011
Thursday, November 25, 2010
With Love
With Love
Is my wallet in my bag. Will I remember it in the morning.
How much change do I have. Enough for the bus, for laundry later.
Are Canadian quarters mixed in. What did I do with the Japanese change.
I don’t need it, but should I try to find it. Should I get up
and look in my jewelry box, in my suitcase, my house dark
and neighbors all asleep, inserted into their beds like chargers
jabbed in the jugulars of cell phones.
Is that a spider vein, under my left eye.
Do we get those on our faces. Is it a broken blood vessel.
Did I shut the window in the living room.
I remember my hand around the crank. Was that yesterday.
What day is tomorrow. How is the week almost over.
How. And the year.
What if we alternated how we measured years.
December our new January. May reinvented as halfway.
Could we slow it. Or introduce sanctioned unpredictability
into our diets.
Did I pay my library fine
before moving last year. Did I give back that book
someone had lent me. Wasn’t it autographed.
It was, a black-markered message, With Love.
I did. Return it.
The tires need more air.
We need a new spare. When should I buy it.
Is my car clawing at the hole in the ozone layer.
Is it efficient.
Leave it nicer than when you first moved in,
or leave it just as it was when you found it.
Which is more possible.
Is my wallet in my bag. Will I remember it in the morning.
How much change do I have. Enough for the bus, for laundry later.
Are Canadian quarters mixed in. What did I do with the Japanese change.
I don’t need it, but should I try to find it. Should I get up
and look in my jewelry box, in my suitcase, my house dark
and neighbors all asleep, inserted into their beds like chargers
jabbed in the jugulars of cell phones.
Is that a spider vein, under my left eye.
Do we get those on our faces. Is it a broken blood vessel.
Did I shut the window in the living room.
I remember my hand around the crank. Was that yesterday.
What day is tomorrow. How is the week almost over.
How. And the year.
What if we alternated how we measured years.
December our new January. May reinvented as halfway.
Could we slow it. Or introduce sanctioned unpredictability
into our diets.
Did I pay my library fine
before moving last year. Did I give back that book
someone had lent me. Wasn’t it autographed.
It was, a black-markered message, With Love.
I did. Return it.
The tires need more air.
We need a new spare. When should I buy it.
Is my car clawing at the hole in the ozone layer.
Is it efficient.
Leave it nicer than when you first moved in,
or leave it just as it was when you found it.
Which is more possible.
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