It is starting to feel good to write again.

How often I say, I can’t complain
and then complain.
My apartment, if you’re reading this
is bigger than yours.
Not to brag.

I asked for the smallest thing they had
and they said here
A place so big you can haunt it.
Watch the sunset through the trees
over my climate Mediterranean balcony

way deep into November.
Even doing it now. Pink light
through spiky little fingers
of pine needles. Yeah, 
yeah I got trees,

they're older than me 
And a cat
so very very very
very fat 
and 

happy?
And I’m not that far behind
and yet
this body always runs
when I ask it to run.

This body always stands up 
when I’ve asked it 
and one day I know
It won’t.
But, baby, you should see me run.

I’m not good, 
but imagine a pony, 
the dumbest 
the dumbest pony you can imagine.
On a beach, happy to be there

just running
running
running
running like it is all it ever wanted to do and all it will ever be happy to do.
Just the happiest and just dumbest fucking pony

heels 
clicking in the air on the up-swing.
Dumbest; happiest 
between miles one and three
this body runs

like it wants me to be happy.
And I know it always won’t.
And I can’t complain 
because sometimes I drive back from the Target
and see this big old hawk hang

big old heavy up there
big old heavy in this white ocean air
Big Old Heavy just lives up there and I
just live out here 
alone 

and just
haunt this big old place and 
I can’t complain
I often say
this place is haunted

I often say
but I can’t complain
Because the square footage and the hawk,
and the Target nearby, and the ocean, the good running.
How often I say 

I just though

can’t complain.

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The Debate that Awoke My Inner Poet.

Surely it is a sign of our times that the single best phrase I have seen or heard or read in a very long time appeared in the zeitgeist last night:

“Uncle Dick in the deer stand”

Certainly this is the “cellar door” of our times. I eagerly await both the ironic t-shirts and the only semi-ironic small town all-male thrash bands.

(source)

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Accidental (FTD) Poetry.

I still use a Yahoo email address for some stuff because I have had it for about a hundred and fifty years. It is also the email I use whenever I sign up for things, so all my later marketing (spam-ish) email goes to one place.

Well I just got a marketing email from FTD (because when I am seeing a lady I like to send flowers, because that is the kind of thing one should do) and the way Yahoo mail works you see not just the subject line of the email, but also a brief preview of the text. Well the FTD email was enabled with links and so I saw in the preview the names of the links and this is what I saw:

Shop Birthday Sympathy Questions

How is that NOT  a collection of poetry yet??? Because I am a sporting kind of guy, I will give the internet 24 hours to claim that title and write it, otherwise I am going to have to do it, because obviously that needs to exist in the world.

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