Grey and black furball
With the heart of an assassin,
Stalks dangerous prey.
With vicious abandon.
And that is why
I’m wearing combat boots
In the house.
Author’s note: This is a performance script. Line breaks are breaths, bold or italics are emphasis, both are extra loud. This was one of my most popular pieces for performance.
I see the heat was too much for you.
Not a glorious end to a glorious creature.
But the ants have fared well.
There is scarcely any flesh left on your fragile, hollow bones.
Did you have any dreams?
Did you know how great you had it,
Commanding flight at a mere whim?
Did you have a family?
Did you see little ones hatched.
Grow large and strong from your care,
And leave to grow little ones
Of their own?
I had dreams.
I have known flight.
I have been present at the birth
Of my little ones.
And I have watched them grow
Large and strong.
And I have watched them
And come back.
And come back.
And someday to leave
And not come back.
I had Dreams,
But now I merely dream.
Don’t you dare have Dreams.
Dreams will dance along in front of you
Just out of reach.
Dreams will crush your soul
And tear out your heart,
And skip away, laughing merrily.
Much better to have mere dreams.
Mere dreams stand patiently waiting.
They say, “Here I am, come get me.”
Mere dreams are not major triumphs,
But they are not losses either.
And missing out will not leave you
Feeling like something inside you has died.
did you have friends?
Comrades, Brothers under the skin?
Do they miss you,
Or even notice you are gone?
Surely there is some member
Of your species
That knows, somehow
You are no longer there.
Opus the Poet
I have been turning the house upside down to find where Mrs. the Poet hid my collection of poems. They had been in an old briefcase with a broken latch, which I found sitting empty in the dining room. I did manage to track down some of the best ones in my performance folio, which was hidden under a pile of bike parts in a tool cabinet. This still leaves the question about the location of the other ones, and even if they still exist. The performance folio has the stuff that did well on stage, but not necessarily the best actual poems. I mean I had what I considered pretty good works that just did not translate to spoken word, especially the one that was entirely in punctuation that I wrote after reading about it in a Douglas Adams book. That one was greatly up to the emotional state of the reader, and after a spoken performance it tended to get locked into the state expressed in the performance.
And there are the ones that have been lost to time, like Lesbians in the Living Room that I wrote while my daughters were in High School. And Hot Monkey Love that I wrote for the Alternative Sexuality group at the pagan community center. And a whole host of ones I have forgotten even the titles.
But I have found some good ones, that I will be transcribing into the blog on days I don’t have anything to say.
Today is Veteran’s Day (observed), so I’m wishing a happy Veteran’s Day to all my green-blooded brothers out there (in joke).
It was cold last night but warmed up this morning enough that I wore my normal next-to-nothing today, which annoyed Mrs. the Poet as she was wearing long pants, t-shirt, and a sweatshirt over it with fuzzy socks on her feet and complaining about the cold. We have vastly different temperature tolerances all year long as I go out and walk or ride my bike in both the summer and winter in weather that has Mrs. the Poet staying indoors or kvetching about the heat/cold as appropriate for the season. I think it’s kinda funny, but that’s because I’m not the one complaining about the cold or heat. My nose does get cold when Mrs. the Poet is complaining about the cold while I’m in a pair of shorts and nothing else, and when I get cold enough to put a shirt on my ears are also getting a bit chilly while Mrs. the Poet is busy putting on everything in the closet and dresser. And I’m not as cold-tolerant as I used to be back when I wore shorts and t-shirt in freezing weather, scaring the rubes when I walked home from work. I saw people tossing liquor bottles out of car windows after seeing me walk home in shorts and T-shirt with heavy frost on the ground. This was back when I was in my 30s, long before I got hit with the truck. I can’t quite do that these days, one of the downsides of years of conditioning myself to be able to ride in ridiculously hot and humid weather.
I’m still stymied at trying to get something moving on the TGS2 build, beyond getting the spindles installed on the axle, which also hasn’t happened yet. I mean I don’t even actually have the donor vehicle in my hands yet, just a car cover for it when I get it so it doesn’t get towed for not having registration since it can’t pass inspection. Since the registration sticker is on the inside of the windshield if you park under a car cover they can’t check to see if your vehicle has current tags. I guess I should be doing something with the parts I have to work with just to be doing something that moves the car build forward, but it is very hard to become inspired for building when you will still have next to nothing to show for it when you get finished except a few more parts not in separate piles. I guess this is another symptom of my depression, the inability to inspire myself to do things. Writing I don’t consider “doing something”, it’s more of a way to avoid doing things. It’s much easier to write about doing something than to actually drag myself into a situation where things are getting done. Also I write when I’m depressed, the “the Poet” in my name came from writing free verse during depressive episodes. I even got some song lyrics down from some of my depressive episodes. Some were good, others were scary bad. Bad as song lyrics, but passable as free verse.