Thursday, June 16, 2011

blink (journal entry in line breaks)

I sit on the floor,
my back against the sofa,
taste of Ramen on my tongue.
An ant crawls onto my right forearm
from some mysterious crumb cave
that's been forming
under the furniture
for the seven years
I've lived here.
He is an outdoor ant, though.
His queen probably sent him in
as a scout
on the hem of my jeans
as I crossed the back threshold.

After I crush him
into two crunchy black pieces,
I fling him into an empty box.

A New York congressman resigns
over a new breed of scandal:
sexting.
I don't want to care.

I should have known
that he would go down
since his words and charisma (and arrogance and ego)
built hope in my chest
(like those crumb caves under my furniture)
when I heard him debate
reactionary leaders.

I'm tired of the media
creating the news,
stampede of bare-chested images
that have nothing to do
with tomorrow.
fuck it all.

Ah well.
I am done with you, Politics.
I'll eat Poetry, instead,
like Mark Strand. I'll grow fat on strophes
and find my hope in alliteration.

In 30 minutes,
I'll leave my house again
to gather my daughter again
from an activity.

Our plans are "soft"
(like my belly).
Her friend who leaves us soon
for boot camp
may or may not
come over
to visit and watch films
with us both.

I have work
that wants doing,
stanzas to build
(like those crumb caves under my furniture).

Writing lately
is like army crawling
through my carpet.
The weave of the words
scratches my chin
and the exposed portion of my chest.
I'm raw from trying too hard.

Maybe I can get a random ant
to whisper a line or two
into the ear that isn't going deaf.

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