, , ,

Tonight in the shower I almost talked myself into figuring out some loopholes to the 365 days, 365 poems thing. Like, I’ll write two tomorrow. Or, I get two cheat days this year.  Or something. My resolve waivered. After two days of training and lots of hours of driving in winter weather tonight’s poem should be : a;lskdafnkdsoifaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiddddddddddddzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. When I wake up in the morning, I should be able to see a garbled message in the key imprints on my cheeks.  Also, the trip to Kalispell caused me to pick up a bad habit. Bed Poeming.  I’m quite a fan, and I’m in bed right now, but I can see how it could quickly become dangerous. I’m so close to being able to fall asleep that I could be tempted to just close my eyes, just for a second, and then it’s all over.  My husband just came in here and interrupted me to show me a facebook exchange (is there a word for that? The comments dialogue, I mean?) on his phone between him and a couple of students about video games. VIDEO GAMES.  I DON’T CARE. The only way I could possibly care less than I do right now about that conversation between two seventeen year-olds and my thirty-seven year-old husband is if he came in, interrupted me, showed me the stuff I don’t care about, then went back in time and did it all again.   I told him that right now this is not our bedroom, it is my pomb room, and he better get or I’m going to hide his phone. I spelled pomb that way in purpose, but I don’t know how I feel about it. I was playing with the spellings of womb and poem, but it seems to me that the pronunciation would be incorrect.  why is it pronounced “woo-uhm”? Would poem spelled pomb be poo-mb?” I don’t really have the energy to do the poems that I actually think about a little today.  They are good fragments, but deserve more time and energy.  But the inspiration I believe I can use, and that was my travel companion today. She talks A LOT.  Luckily, she’s also really smart and entertaining.   Good, deep, hilarious conversation between women is very nurturing. It’s what we do. Women nurture one another and provide strength, clarity, and humor.  We also say a lot of naughty words. Dudes, you’d be shocked. I promise you, you’ve never heard conversation like this in your life. I’m going to sleep on a bit of poem that came from that rowdy girl talk, and see if I can’t swish it into something interesting tomorrow, but right now I need to get to work.

Old Stories


These old stories

never come

back without the scenes.


No fading or misty time,

fewer celluloids

but such bright film.



Each telling is a shiny mirror,

playing games

on clapboard walls.


I don’t know what this means. I don’t care, either. I’m going to bed. I don’t think this counts as breaking the bullshit rule, because my brain is shutting down, and also, there were some ideas in there somewhere and I promise to go back and try to figure them out tomorrow.  Happy Tuesday, readers of words.