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Friday, July 11, 2008
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CityLife:
another poem
The man on the corner with his cardboard sign and bullet hole pants
Sits yards away from the vendor selling water and gum
Two doors down the donut lady pours coffee and hums
From fifty feet away the bullhorn deacon rants
They will be mentioned by gleaming young writers scribbling sweat
Six hundred word columns about skyscrapers and rock art
Immigrant lives and how a waitress got the star part
During this we ride subways and get our feet wet
© Me
Currently Listening
Born
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Friday, June 27, 2008
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Another P3T
Little Milk Imitate
A little stone fell into my shoe
And I walked on it for a mile, or more…
I don’t really know, because I
Count blocks now, in this place—
And out of this place.
It makes for more measured-out moments.
The sunshine, measured and strained
Like milk, this skimmed light
Filters through my mornings.
In my cup of afternoons, I drink it
Cloudy, warm, I stir it through to
My evenings when imitations of stars
Glow in the skyscraper firmament,
Measured and limited stars—
in their glory they yearn after God.
Currently Listening
Supply and Demand
By Amos Lee
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Wednesday, April 02, 2008
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Sunshine after Darkness!
I walked slowly outside today and the sunshine washed over me in one brilliant splash. Seconds later I came floundering out of it with a smile so big I must have scared the passers-by. Lux! Oh, sunshine after grey grey grey. And why wasn't everyone around me transformed? No one seemed to notice that the sun was smiling, beaming, welcoming. I wanted to shout to these people: "You can stop swimming now! This will carry us; just let it wash you forward. Don't stroke so hard. Stop doing it alone." But here if you say these things a barracuda will slash a hole in your side and swim right through. And so I stopped right on the street corner and wondered once more why Spring sunshine makes me want to dance and cry.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
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Pieces of home...
In our office, we sing Judy Garland songs and Nat King Cole ballads to bring pieces of home to the disabled boy who smiles out of his one, dark eye.
In the train, soft-spoken immigrants carry pieces of home in their voices and lunch bags.
In my apartment we arrange them, hold them, and pretend to discard them: pieces of home in the form of family faces, favorite dishes, and small teddy bears no twenty-something ever needs.
On the street, men bear them in lipstick smudges and laundered coats, women push them in strollers, sing them in rhyme, and push them carelessly into purses.
We rarely see them for what they are; and if we do, we try to hide our dependency. We, like the songwriter, are afraid to come home a stranger... so we carry things reminding us of our need to acknowledge home.
I think sentiment is a stronger force than most.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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[dramatic, stereotypical monologue in which i blame Facebook for my unfaithfulness to Xanga and pledge my renewed earnestness to stay true. Lengthy lament about the apparent waning of Xanga's life and further promises to hang on to the bitter end ]...
So... I'm not sure whether to talk about what people EXPECT me to talk about or what is really going on. I could tell you I auditioned for a singing part in an off-broadway musical and got it... I could tell you I started working at a fruitstand on the weekend selling kumquats to balding Greek men... and I could talk about dog-walking my neighbor's Great Dane who weighs nearly as much as I do... but my REAL life is, i suspect, just about as interesting right now. My 30-minute commute to work filled with sleepy bits of people's mornings, my weekends of working on getting the apartment into a more livable condition and exploring this nonsensically wonderful city, my coworkers and the patients in the office, my colorful landlady's family, The Haven (which helps keep the artist in me sane) and my neighborhood--which i love more than the rest of this city put together--they're all what makes living away from family just a little less hard. THAT'S the kind of stuff i should be writing about...when i have more time.
Happy late-November! Christmas is almost here...
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About Me
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There is a certain embarrassment about being a storyteller in these times when stories are considered not quite as satisfying as statements and statements not quite as satisfying as statistics; but in the long run, a people is known, not by its statements or its statistics, but by the stories it tells. --Flannery O'Connor
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Back in ATL; great trip. Met the ppl i needed to meet, had my interviews, and saw the apt. I was offered--and took--a job! Now i move!
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Yes! 2, (?) 3, interviews today! Pls. pry that God will send $ soon I need to pay the dep. on my rm. so they don't rent to someone else!
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I'm Here in NYC for 2 days to meet roommates, meet landlady, have interview, job hunt, and set things up in general. Pray for direction
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