Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Good Man

It's been like two weeks since the last time that I posted on here. I don't have new stuff- there I said it. Everything I have is at least three weeks old (which for me is old). And not like, I wrote it three weeks ago- I mean that the last time I looked at it was three weeks ago so I probably wrote it over a month ago.

The last post- Sometimes, It's Less Than Always, was the most recent thing that I've written. That was one of those moments where I've got to put some things in words so that I can make sense of them. Which brings me to my next point and why I don't have new shit.

Atypical Depression is a subtype of Major Depression notable for intense mood reactivity and personal rejection sensitivity causing impaired social functions blah blah blah, I'm not a shrink. (and heightened cravings for carbohydrates-that's not relevant but does explain my gaudy love of the gummi bear).

So I said that to say this: My mood, as of late, has been pretty decent which is good for getting out, going running, drinking responsibly, and being almost entertaining to be around. All of those things are terrible conditions for writing poetry. Thusly, old poems. I hope you still like it, precious reader, because I still like you.


Good man

When we were little, we use to stand as high as we could
on a hill and wave at prisoners in the yard.
She would hold my hand and whisper,
“What if they get free” and I’d say, “Don’t worry
lil lady, I’ll protect you,” and call her a damsel
even though we didn’t know what it meant.

She’d punch me in the arm and tell me she was a girl
who didn’t need a boy.

Well, now she’s a woman-
burning like the highway sun and she still doesn’t need a boy.
I hold her hand and I joke
that we would be great together
and she says,
“A good man is hard to find”
and
“I need a guy just like you.”
and I joke
that there’s only one of me and she kisses me
on the cheek and asks if spaghetti’s okay, because it’s all
she knows how to cook
and I tell her it’s exactly what I wanted
and I only care that she’s the one who made it
for me.

So we eat and we laugh and we dance
and I can’t help but wonder where I am
that I’m so hard to find.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Sometimes it's less than always

Two things today. Firstly (is that a word? My vote is no but I've committed and like our last president, I will not change my decision even when I am wrong) is the issue of my new film work. I put together a reel of just about everything I did during my last year as a college student. I'd appreciate it if you would watch it.

Just looked it up- it is a word. Don't know why it looked weird.

Watch this.


Nextly, is the issue of poetry. Look at this.

Sometimes it's less than always

Sometimes, there’s nothing I can do to keep from crying
Sometimes, I drink beer in the shower
Sometimes, I think about you
Sometimes, I just think about your ass or your hair or whatever
Sometimes, I drink until I can’t see
Sometimes, people call me Mr. Coleman until they realize how small
I truly am
Sometimes, the sun hides behind a cloud and I find it hard
to believe it still exists
Sometimes, I know how to conjugate verbs in arabic
Sometimes, you smile at me
Sometimes, I pretend you’re smiling just for me
Sometimes, I can run for hours and never get tired
Sometimes, you frighten me
Sometimes, I get tired
Sometimes, two plus two equals five
Sometimes, I wonder if you could be won with a stroke of my pen
Sometimes, I am the fox
Sometimes, I smoke cigarettes like ceremonial incense
Sometimes, I am the hound
Sometimes, I am beautiful
Sometimes, I can’t be seen until I drink
Sometimes, I think I’m good enough for you.
Sometimes, I’m wrong