Arms Flush to My Thighs

May 29, 2008

What what what what. I am exhausted because I had two beers, uh, six hours ago. I improvised a pasta sauce that is okay, I spent twice my allotted $10 a day until I leave for America, and and and what else? I started to do poetry exercises. Here’s a taste:

Your mouth is always open, split by your big bottom lip
It smells like mid-morning spit and coffemilk
And stuff that never sees light
It sticks on my finger tip, but glides under my nose
It tastes like your hair because when we kiss
Your fringe is near my nose and I can’t think
About much besides your fringe
Your mouth gives your speech a rounded hobbled trip
Because you never close your lips

The idea there was to choose an object and describe it using all your senses. A lot of the exercises are more boring, get ready for love. I feel incoherent and unhinged. I am unable to smooth out my life using the powers of narrative. How can I appear to be a proper person if my best attempts to be so are one leg up in pale red trunks my mother bought me? Who is going to read this? What will their relationship to me be? What will I be doing? Teaching 14 year olds? Will this disqualify me immediately? I will be surprised if I’m still alive… I am too tired to be doing this.

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