unfinished poems taste better than completed essays.

I sit down to tip-type out on this here bloggamajigger all the time, and eventually give up. Why? Because documenting every little thing that happens in the course of my day has now become tedious. I suppose that is the way of it; the ebb and flow of interest, of creativity, of life. What seems first to be a revelation becomes a tired dogma, leading my flock of interest far away from its neatly lined up pews. Yesterday, I made gnocchi with yams (not sweet potatoes, yams) instead of the regular potato, loaded the dough with black pepper and tossed the lot in a sage and butter sauce before finally topping my small bowl of goodness in roasted green tomatoes. I also came up with an herby oven friend green tomato recipe. I made breadcrumbs with oat bran bread, toasted in olive oil and salt an pepper, then crushed those up with parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme and lemon thyme. My endeavors to be a healthier sort of writer in a black turtleneck are going alright, I think.

I want to kick about and take photos in the maelstrom outside, but I do not have very much protective gear for my camera. For now, I think I’ll give my Hallowe’en wig its haircut and set to making Eric’s birthday present. While creating something for someone is the more thoughtful thing to do, I have totally committed myself to a labor-intensive project and, like most of my projects, it has grown quite fantastical in concept and seen very little in the way of execution. So, hey, here’s a poem and a bowl of gnocchi.

Friday, The Writer must deal with the Bitter Meat of Strangers.

this is a reticent repast
eaten at a local ivory tower;
a noisy dungeon of drink.

here, slowly drinking
in death alone i am surrounded
by the wan woes of others.

all these someones whose
someones i don’t know.

each sip leaves less to the
imagination, and holds
the microphone closer
to the boorish, boring mouth
of Friday.

someone raises a glass
to the question of time,
where friday is thursday
and thursday is saturday
and every day is a chance
to change your mind.

i am sat here, with a ghost,
who talks mostly to his beer,
confusing me with his
consequences and trifling
tirades.

my words bleed black.
having no choice on the matter –
they are in the same
prison as i, wishing
for bigger windows
and newer paper.

gnocchi.jpg

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One comment

  1. I’m so hungry right now as a result of reading about your new cooking experiments.
    I really enjoyed your poem.
    Smile.


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