ON RECALLING ANGST FROM DAYS GONE BY

"Alright Aaron," you say, "you've posted several works by some of America's greatest poetic voices. How's about some poetry of your own?" It's a fair cop, made even more so by the fact that I haven't written a poem in a month of Sundays. But if you're in the mood for some puerile, lovesick maudlin verse, here's a poem I wrote in February of 2004. I can make no suitable apology for it other than the fact that I was a young, foolish man of 23 when I wrote this. I hope it's not too cringe-worthy.


If only you knew what I think about
You might not ever look at me that way again.
Sometimes I wish that you would just figure it out
on your own, because I don't want to go about explaining.
It's not that my thoughts are bad; after all, there is no good or bad
but thinking makes it makes it makes it so it wakes me up
in the middle of the night
And I can't sleep. Then I turn and look and there you are
Lying in bed beside me. And it's just fine you're naked now, but do you want to
Know that I undressed you in my mind the very first time we met?
Does the fact that I just told you make me more a demon or a saint?
And when we fucked - this time again, for the very first time - is it best that I not say
Just how many others came before, and that I couldn't quite remember
what your name was that next day?
Maybe this is best, because I've tried to tell the truth before
To some who thought they knew what I would say;
I always wound up disappointing them and me.
But surely you know, don't you? that everyone is thinking
Just like me, it's only that I need to tell somebody else.
But only if they're special are you special?
Only if they're brave are you that brave?
Only if they're human are you human?
Maybe I'll find out tomorrow, when you wake.


Actually, even today I kind of like it. Just don't ask me to post anything from my teenaged years.

ON THE ONTOLOGICAL SHIFT IN SONGS PREDICATED ON SEXUAL FRUSTRATION

Is this age of immediate gratification, first-date fucks, and instantaneous communiques between interested parties, is there still room in the modern idiom for such paeans to erotic deferral as 'Tired of Waiting' by The Kinks or Chuck Berry's 'No Particular Place to Go'?

YES I AM ONE LAZY SUMBITCH

But I did want to let you know that I WILL be updating the blog soon, so all two of you who continue to read this will soon have something new for your troubles. Be patient and, as the old dude in the Bartles and James commercial used to say, thank you for your support.

SOME DISTURBING LOCAL DEVELOPMENTS IN DISSOCIATIVE BEHAVIOR

Ilene has graced us with some new insights into her philosophy towards life vis à vis aesthetics, the performing arts, and interpersonal ethics. To wit:

On the television program Arrested Development:

"I love this show more than I love anyone in real life."

On her reason for loving Arrested Development more than any actual human being:

"There's nothing these characters can do to hurt me."

On her new Vizio flatscreen television:

"Anyone who wants to spend time with me is gonna have to compete with this baby."

On her general attitude towards the human race:

"I hate everyone."

Wise beyond her years, this one. When she speaks, you know what I do? I listen.

THE IDEA OF ORDER AT KEY WEST

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard.
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

—Wallace Stevens, 1934

Utter, absolute genius.

BIG NEWS IN APARTMENT 515

Quote Ilene: "I'm itching for a gangbang."

This declaration, seemingly à propos of nothing, naturally elicited my curiosity. At first I suspected that perhaps Ilene was conflating the gangbang with the more-popular orgy. However when I offered her the choice between on one hand a gangbang involving, say, 30 men and herself, and on the other a garden-variety orgy involving a more even number of men and women, Ilene was unequivocal: she wants the gangbang.

Gentlemen, start your engines! Because when push comes to shove and tickle comes to poke, I doubt she'll be terribly picky.

HARLEM

What happens to a dream deferred?


Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?


Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.


Or does it explode?


—Langston Hughes, 1951