Monday, December 31, 2012
I Wanted to Kiss Your Lips, which Remained Supple, but All the Water in Them Had Been Replaced with Embalming Compound
Paul Westerberg is still four months and three days younger than me and turns 53 today. This is Day Three of Aarghfreeness. I'm broadening the scope of what can be posted, another way of saying I'm narrowing the scope of what I call aargh, which is another way of saying I'm buying the rounds at this week's Thursday Night Pints. >>Deleted (or at least delayed) bleggalgazing<< Lines from the reports of the investigative committees. Vampire capitalism and the fear of inoculation. FascistBook strikes again. Gun control + unlawful wars. His generation's greatest academic fraud. I say that admiringly (though joke(r) getting old). Blog round-up. Blooger, btw, is skeevier than ever. According to my template, this blog's title is 50 point Ariel in maroon, the post font is 16 Times New Roman in blue. According to a blogger help forum, the Apply to Blog button on template is broken, blooger either doesn't know and doesn't care or does know and doesn't care. This is indirectly related to the >>Deleted (or at least delayed) bleggalgazing<< Mentioned in case the settings kick in - it wasn't me. Bleggalgazing. Cartophilia. SeatSix gave me a replica 1865 MOCO map for Giftmas, gonna hang it in the big room when I get around to it, did you know the area around Laytonsville once was a township called Cracklintown? ICC. Touring the Doll Hospital. Moonlight monologue for the new kitten. 2013: Year of Repeat Repeat Repeat. Nine most newsworthy dogs of 2012. Five great darknesses. Wolpe: Quartet for Trumpet, Tenor-Sax, Percussion, Piano. Your Ancient NYC Klaus Nomi Fix.
Waking from comalike sleep, I saw the poppies,
with their limp necks and unregimented beauty.
Pause, I thought, say something true: It was night,
I wanted to kiss your lips, which remained supple,
but all the water in them had been replaced
with embalming compound. So I was angry.
I loved the poppies, with their wide-open faces,
how they carried themselves, beckoning to me
instead of pushing away. The way in and the way out
are the same, essentially: emotions disrupting thought,
proximity to God, the pain of separation.
I loved the poppies, with their effortless existence,
like grief and fate, but tempered and formalized.
Your hair was black and curly; I combed it.