poesie

Alyson and Cain came over tonight for dinner and drinking, after an eventful thrift store trip (I bought a dress and a book titled 'Socialism' that is going to make a lovely faux-gift for my old co-worker. I ALMOST bought a black lace sleeveless jumpsuit, but resisted the urge). While they were here, we got to talking a bit about writing and I mentioned that one of my friends has been on me to submit some poems for publication. The thing is, I only have 2 poems I could even submit and one of them is just an old reworked one. I can't find it in me to really write anything lately and when I do, it's never anything I'm proud of. Though, the poem I had published in the Delta was something I wrote on more of a whim than something I really poured my heart into. That said, it's also a poem I've never really been all that into (I'm dissatisfied with the line breaks and the last verse, but was persuaded into both by my professor and some classmates) I've decided to try reading some more poetry and see if that kick starts me. And maybe do some more-than-halfhearted investigating into a writing group around here.

Sometimes I still toy with the idea of doing a MFA in poetry or non-fic. But I just don't think I have the drive (or really, the talent) to see it out, despite what others seem to think. Maybe if I could pen something I thought half-decent, that would change.

For fun, here's my old Delta poem:

mai 1968
I have this fantasy
of running into the grocery store
past the produce and into the aisles
over-turning shelf after shelf
stacked with neatly arranged
jars and cans
watching them drop and explode
or roll towards the feet of
stunned shoppers

Liberez les haricots!
Detruisez la politique de classe d'epicerie!

then jumping into
a hot pink Ferrari
clouds of sandy dust
choking off my trail
as I race the sunset
into the desert

Free! Free! Free!

and while we're at it, here's the non-fic piece as well:
Made in America (TM)
I didn't feel like drinking, but since no one else felt like leaving, I went to the bar.
"What you want, baby?" The bartender's eyes never made it up to my face.
Cringe. "Can I get a Franziskaner?"
"Red one or gold one?"
"Red one."
"Man, what kinda beer is that?"
The man on my left pointed at the bottle in front of me. The bartender rolled his eyes and walked off.
"It's a German beer, it's like..."
"Girl, I know it's a beer! How you pronounce that?"
"Franz-ah-skaner."
"Franta-scanner? Sounds like Frankenstein!" He pointed at the cooler. "Tell me where them beers are from."
"Where do you want to start?"
"What's that one with the owl?"
"Hitachino Nest? That's from Japan."
"All right, what about that one? Foster's?"
"Australian."
"Chai-may?"
"Cha-may. Belgian."
"Delirium Treemans?"
"Tremans!" yelled the bartender. "That's what New Orleans public school education gets you!"
"Man, that shit ain't English!" He turned back to me. "TRIMINS. Where's that one from?"
"That one's Belgian too."
"Marid-sous 8?"
"Belgian, again!"
"Damn, Belgium must be the beer capital of the world! All right...Taddy Porter?"
"Hm...that's English."
"Finally! I'm gettin' tired of Belgium. Okay, what about that one?"
"Which one?"
He leaned across the bar, carefully avoiding his glass of Taaka, and squinted at the bottom of the cooler. "Dead...Dead Guy Ale."
"Oh. That one's American."
"American, huh? Yeah, that figures."