Greetings and salutations from my sophomore year at BYU, and more specifically from my twin-sized bed in my new apartment-townhouse-thang which is officially named Promenade and unofficially named "Amityville" after a certain Amityville Horror---or also known as "The Nightosphere", "Barad-Dûr", "The Outlook Hotel", "Satis House", "Mustafar", "The Snakepit", "The Nostromo", "Plato's Cave", "The Lair", "Bran Castle", and a myriad of other charming literary references---and despite everything, it has stairs which I like so all hope is not lost.
This semester---along with a few mandatory annoyances like American Heritage and beginning French---I'm taking a women's literature class, a survey of Judaism and Islam, and a poetry class, and the latter is the reason I actually exerted the effort to write this blog post. Which is to say: I am going to post poetry on this blog and officially renege my previous resolution to do less of the (annoying?) poetry-blogging and more of the (also annoying?) blog-blogging. Because I want to. And because this is my blog. And because whatever forever. And most importantly, because yolo.
So this is my latest assignment, which was to capture a "still life" with isolated images from somewhere we're familiar with (in this case: my bedroom), using prose-poetry. There were originally 5 stanzas (paragraphs?), but the last one turned out to be about Addy somehow, and I feel the need to rework it until it's good enough to gain her approval. So. Voilà.
ROOT BEER BOTTLEIn Galilee you fished for soda pop in the briny sea. It was summer, desiccant, little weed-flowers caking and crisping in the ditches and the dumps. You were parched and empty-netted—a Fisher of Men—craving sugar, crying salt; fishless. I came to you bearing fruit and protein, manna, Bagel Bites, honey, locusts—and still you thirsted for orangeade and Pepsi Cola, you thought you’d likely perish from the thirst; you were pathetic, frankly, and I very nearly left you on that boat to search the sea for a flash of aluminum until you drove yourself mad.BURRSI didn’t mean to bring them home, but a small part of the wild, cruel building of the Earth must’ve clung to me; she’s an anxious mother, after all, she put her fingers on me when I left her.On an early-autumnal Friday a little congregation of fairies and teenagers crouches by a dying blue fire, trying to bleed the warmth from it, palming it with their hands. An atheist boy’s skin glows like that of the proverbial Golden Calf, and when he tells them about the mating dance of the Great Frigatebird his voice shakes. Up and above the quaking aspens and the firs, over the scent of carrion and sap, his voice carries and eventually stops. He is reverent. He is revering.
YELLOW HAIR IN THE CARPETYes, like a Pagan goddess, I sat on my heels and made braids and pigtails in the dark, kicking off bogeymen and vampires, reveling in early-Paleozoic luxuries like teeth and bones and fingernails. You’d think I was a heathen princess, a cavegirl camouflaged in my furs, speaking a Babylonian tongue: mink, lycanthrope, wormwood. And still I needed the dollar-store lipgloss and Egyptian kohl—warpaint—velvet and acrylic and, yes, even tar. It’s Sunday night and I’ve fallen asleep on the floor again.DESK LAMPAnd God said, “Let there be light”, and there was light, and it was fluorescent and iridescent, it was 30 and 40 watt, pink neon, dusty in the garage, crude and impartial and sloppy. There was light gushing through the kitchen window—the honey jar glowed red—and a moth hurled itself bloodily against the glass, muttering blindly in its grief and fury. Someone came home in the night, joints popping and teeth clicking, said idly, “Someone left the hall light on,” turned it off, and got ready for bed.
It's still a bit rough.
Blah blah blah, etc.