I literally looked up and it's been more than a month since my last post,
to which the only thing I have to say is....
That was not, nor has it ever been my intention to leave that much of
a gap in this new (or semi-new) endeavor. But I've said all of that to say
I no longer hate planks, yet I don't love them either. You see, several things
have happened since my last post. Last week, for the first time I was able
to get up off the floor by myself! It may not seem like a big deal, but for
someone like me; who usually avoided the floor at all costs and considered
getting up off the floor with massive amounts of dread, it's EVERYTHING.
***************
Attended an online open mic I haven't been to in a while. Tallgrass Writers
Guild which is usually on the fourth Saturday of each month. Despite all the
possibilities of technical glitches, I must say I love the convenience of it all.
Attending an open mic without having to leave the house with clothing optional
(from the waist down). Just remember to turn video off before getting up. 😜😜
the poem I read was about this guy...
In truth, I've loved Jim Morrison since I was 18. Immersing myself into psychedelic rock in the summer of 1987. And after several photos, albums and poems about him, I still do. *************
During the open mic, the featured poet introduced two forms; one familiar and one unfamiliar. The Cento and the other based on reading a poem in a language you don't understand and creating a poem based on what you think it means.
I'm very fascinated with both and look forward to trying them very soon.
*****************************************
The all-night taco stand simmers in the
midnight heat. The unsaid social group meets again
for yet another round of comradeship and slurred
serenades to themselves. Before stepping out the
door to the Street of Oblivion, they order one
more taco de sesos for the road, in a last-ditch
attempt to access higher levels of intelligence.
Local youths, at the starting point of the well-worn
road to street life and “infamy” swagger inventively
across the street. Shoulders swinging
like pendulums as feet trod the city earth.
Fingers that contorted into abstract hieroglyphics
that foul the air take on a demure innocence
when the law rolls around. But it’s too late–
the subtitles were already read.
*********************
It's been thirteen years since the above poem was accepted, about one of the main streets in my neighborhood. A lot has changed since then, less gang activity, more gentrification and homelessness. The cheap apartments have long vanished, residing only in memory. Takeout quadrupled since first moving there in '91. It
sounds surreal when I say it out loud, NINETEEN NINETY-ONE. But I'm not older, just BETTER.
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