Wistful

So, I’ve failed in writing anything today because I am getting over a glut of work. How’s about some old poetry?

Here’s a throw-away I wrote as a letter to my husband. I didn’t even bother to punctuate it.

Long Distance Relationship

Dear mine: I ate
once today, slept three
times, visited my
favorite website (counting
the number of times I hit
F5) one hundred and three
times, second favorite: too
many times to count, I read
three poems, one was good,
I got fifty five pages
through a book I’ve read
before, there are eight
books on my shelf
I have yet to read,
I flipped my light switch
two and a half dozen times,
I visited my restroom
four times: once to shower,
once to grab the floss,
the other times are private
I didn’t count the breaths
or times my upper eyelashes
hit my lower ones, but at their
current averages, I would say
fourteen thousand four hundred
and three thousand five hundred
and fifty six, respectively

I know you like to know how my days go

Melodramatic

Two things:

1. I put off some work that is due this weekend and have fallen way behind. Yet, I still seem to be moving in slow motion.

2. Kim emailed me about whether I prefer R2D2 or C3P0. (The answer is R2D2.) While searching through some documents to find some research I have for an article, I found my poetry portfolio for a class from last year. It had this poem, which seems so appropriate I had to share.

Sorry about the mess

I believed you
ran my
perfect plastic replica
of Han Solo through
through honey
crystal sugar sprinkles
various barbeque
horseradish Worcestershire
and tartar sauces
you set him on
the crusted plate
on High Power
in all of its green
LCD glory
I watched all hope
fade for the rebel
alliance

Now back to work!

Laconic

Feelin’ lyrical today.

Why I can’t be the wife of a man with mob ties in 70s era Vegas

I tried to paint my nail tips red
like Sharon Stone in Casino
when she was in her gold
lycra period.

The acetone in the shot glass
looked a lot like one of those twelve
dollar birthday shots.

I aborted the project; I couldn’t
wipe the polish into crescent moons
like Korean women in a-line dresses.

I couldn’t get all the pigment
from the edge of my nail bed.

I couldn’t find a mark to extort
gambling winnings from.

I couldn’t pull off
a fur wrap.