It's the classic "move"- I'm three beers into a six-pack and surrounded by bubble wrap & open boxes- and look where I am- procrastinating. In fact I'm even procrastinating on procrastination, having found a forgotten journal and opened up to these notes for a poem, which are kind of perfect given the situation. Fuck, they could almost apply to my blogging at this point- I've discovered that (?!?!) there's no high-speed internet where I'm going-- as far as I know the fucking Taliban has internet access in certain remote caves. Nova Scotia, you can SUCKLE ON MY BALLS. Get it together, okay?
*calming intake & outtake of breath*
Yet, "As Mr. Spock is so fond of saying, There Are Always Possibilities" (to quote Captain Kirk, I think), and though my entries might be a tad intermittent, there's still alot of backlog for the curious to explore. As I am so well aware of at the opening of each old box I come to.
A painting would never be good enough
It's only farther away than a photograph,
or a memory
Why should a poem be any different
A poem comes only as close as finding
one of your long hairs in the crack of a book,
by chance,
on one day of many in this life.
Only a whisper of a million parts of you
And at that a part I'm lucky enough
to identify,
to comprehend,
to close the book and trap again.
And so I choose to lock your beauty down
as I find it,
To crawl about these words and find it way to something
more important,
Something that will perhaps become
a secret,
or forgotten,
Stumbled upon in later years,
A whisper of a million newer parts since grown,
to grasp for,
to comprehend,
to close the book and trap again.
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