Oct 30 2007

I Need A New Pen

Why don’t I read Faster Than Kudzu every day? Because then I would know this already. Sheesh. I need to pay more attention.

Savage Chicken

Sep 12 2007

Refrigerator Poetry

The company I contract for has changed its business model with resulting upset amongst both the noble and common populace of its fair Santa Monica Cubicle Kingdom. Some while ago, a noble long since lost to a diplomatic incident with another Cubicle Kingdom tossed a couple of packages of Refrigerator Poetry magnets up on the refrigerators in the Castle Kitchen. The mood is relentlessly grim above the salt, and the peasants are revolting – bitter, angry, mournful and otherwise emo messages are scattered in staccatto black and white all over the hummy boxes that hold food.

I am tired of the negative vibe. I get it, sometimes I share it, but it damned sure doesn’t make me wanna go to work to earn my ducats. So today I did my part to move a little energy around the space while I waited for the other half of Monday’s lunch to heat up in the cleaner microwave. Since all my poetry seems to be about sex or death and I wanted to lighten the place up a bit, and also because the world needs more refrigerator poetry, I offer my effort:

refrigerator poem #1

drunk on need
luscious red wanting
my languid tongue
iron will
raw juices run
smeared over
your skin
the urge
to watch you
under me

Not sure if I should actually number it, as that is both pretentious and implies there will be more. While pretentious in this context could be interpreted as mildly ironic in a post-deconstructionist sort of way, I may not want to write (stick, assemble, manipulate?) any more refrigerator poems. At least not in the office, if I’m going stick to my usual themes. And our dogs will peel and eat anything remotely reachable on our refrigerator at home. On the other hand, a limerick about a serial killer who sticks his victims in abandoned refrigerators might be kinda fun for #2 – switch it up a bit, zazapow!

Aug 9 2007

Blogging Without Obligation

I get stuck in perfectionism procrastination – if I can’t get something right, whatever “right” looks like in my head, I freeze up and put it off until later, letting uh…. um… gah…. nevermind take over rather than letting whatever it is I’m murgling about be better late than never. Frex, I’ve had about a dozen blog entries swirling around in my head in the last month, and have realized that I put myself on a deadline to get them typed up and posted, and if I miss that deadline I don’t bother.

My rationalization for not bothering is that I’ve missed the window, the ship has sailed, there’s no point in even trying as eventually the earth will fall into the sun and my blog post ain’t gonna do shit to stop that. Which is essentially giving into existentialist despair. Over blogging. But not really over blogging. Blogging (properly / ontime / underbudget / brilliantly / insightfully / worldchangingly / pulitzerprizewinningly) or the lack thereof, is just one facet of the sparkling dark jewel of perfectionism I ceaselessly seek to polish (had to toss in a bit of goth emo phrasing, really I did). The phrase “polishing the knob” extends rather nicely from this – if in my case as a woman the use of “knob” could be a feministing sort of reclamation of a normatively male euphemism for penis, or a placeholder for the poetic jewel of wine-sodden 12th century poetry. To remain in the realm of the conceptual, polishing this particular jewel (no, not the one that broke that last vibrator) amounts to mental masturbation.

See? Grandma was right! If you do it too much you will grow such thick hair on the palms of your metaphorical hands that you will no longer be able to grasp the point of an argument! You will go intellectually blind and will no longer be able to see the semantic forest for the syllogistic trees!! God will kill conceptual lolkittens and strew their bodies along the left-hand path of your amygdala!!!

My point, and I do have one beyond asserting that my clitoris is a sparkly jewel of ancient wine-soaked poetry, is that ain’t nothing ever gonna be perfect, no matter how hard I grind my brain against it. The double-negative in that last sentence is the devil’s advocate picking its fingernails whilst muttering through a cloud of brimstone that it just might be possible to make something perfect if I obsess over it long enough. The devil’s advocate needs a manicure and to fuck off, so I’m gonna let stand as-is, imperfect grammar and all, and stick a graphic up here now: