So, because of Facebook, I’ve started looking at this holiday differently. I have lots of single friends. And they deserve their own holiday. Like, the Awesome People day. The People Who Have Gone to A Lot of Concerts and Understand Why They are Single and Love It Day. Singleness is awesome. You are the best ones. I have a friend, Anne, who is a bright, confident, gorgeous single woman who can’t find a date for tonight because she listens to metal and goes to shows and those guys act like assholes. So, today, the only poemspiriation I got was when I saw this: Go Tinder
and also this parody of that:
As I wait for my husbandpants to get home, I can’t help but feel smug. I will never need an online dating site. But if, in my early twenties, I felt lonely which I was all the time, I would’ve use it, I’m sure. Such a funny algorithm, funny math, I’m sure. What could’ve it done for me in a tiny mountain town, I wonder?
Tonight I’m trying to get through this fast, because it is Valentine’s day and my guy is heading home now. So. I best get poeming.
The Bogus Tinder Profile of an Old Married Broad
Single people get bunches of colorful balloons. Good for them. It seems like real life, but better.
Nothing could take us back there. Nothing. Above it all. Above it all.
Above all these algorithms of interest and compatibility, what about talking? Talking in universes.
In my imaginary online profile, is the a box for Missoula Lake? Is there a box for purple flowers on the mountain?
If I had this life to live, I’d surely live it over,
in organized angels. The cookstove would bloom mightily, against all this.
Against the stigma pages and final skies,
against the human ridges and behind a thousand offshore nets.
In this house, in this scorning orbit, there is a boy beneath fixed clouds.
Check this. It is a ravishing bite.
In this textbox I will misplace a mishap.
If I could live it over, I’d do it in a few thoughts. But those thoughts wouldn’t barnacle to a picture.
The few thoughts would be half a boulder.
Is there a box for antlers seen in the background? Can you sense my unaccompanied cheer, dappled in the yellow gloaming?
Is this a thrall worth rippling?
Does this photo show the arthritic berry preserves? Does it show the stick slow by the waterfall?
Here I am, soft-boned by the waterfall, throat-toned in the harvest, ungoverned by the parsimonious clock.
This is a complicated picture. It is one that schools in blackbirds, heading a secret in the corridor whisper.
Can I see your crowbar eyes, in this photo? Isn’t this the night classroom?
The watchful air lilies are hinting secrets in this snapshot.
How best to reach you, in this world of images,
what do we click,
for admiring each ferocity?
So, I guess sometimes a poem is just a series of pretty-sounding questions. This a a very type-y poem, like yesterdays, and I think that is fallout from the most spiritually heavy poem of the week. I think I’m going to ask my friend Jesus, of the American Laboratory Theatre, to video me performing the gun poem, when he gets back. Because I don’t know what else to do about it. Thinking of you, Jesus in Colombia. Steady as she goes. 🙂 Love you, poemers. Happy Weird Friday! Anna