Thursday, July 22, 2010

Weekly Poem: Physical Geography Part 2

July 20th/2010 - 2:30 am

I don’t know what to say, the problem is, I’m a writer, writers have things to say, and I promised myself I was going to write tonight

It’s easy to get distracted when you have a bit of rum wine and facebook on the laptop, but I had an idea that I was going to run with, see where it takes me, inspired by allen ginsberg white shroud gift from dina moore

I wrote a poem called physical geography, it was abstract and sort of shitty, inspired by stone diaries carol shield English patient Michael odantje university bullshit, where is the personal, the reality of a personal geography realized

Bald spot on top of my head, four head makes five head maybe six head, erosion over time its been inevitable like a sun rise or a the moon at night or getting old, it will happen to you it will happen to everyone just like cancer

Scar on my tongue, dead center, never thought to listen to life guard, I don’t remember, it was in the dawn of my life, infant running on the side of the pool slips and bites his tongue would be the headline, blood running dripping hurting like hell, they told me I couldn’t drink any orange juice, it will never go away or fade

Welcome to the gun show, biceps, inside of my arms by the pits, I tried lifting weights in my basement, punished by stretch marks, OCD had me every night burning myself out in grade ten in an attempt to fit in, it worked for awhile

Across my shoulders, top of my chest and back, only temporary, the consequences of run in the sun waterslides and fun mountain, kols ninth birthday, men being men, its only temporary, will only be temporary, the burning when I move and my secret wars t-shirt slides across it like sand paper

Two many beers over too many years in too many university beer tents, 150 pounds swelling to 220, stomach stretch marks, the embarrassment of just getting worse and worse and worse and worse, late night meals of potato salad and wine at 3:30 am, not inevitable or irreversible

My Right hand, I only write with it, a long and sordid story, destroyed knuckles along the wrist too many long years fighting anything with the most resistance, mostly the floor or lockers or walls or I thinks that’s another story, it was concrete and that is only the start, the rest of it is the rest of the hand, a boxing break along my knuckles my pinky broke in two, it was Ukraine was too embarrassed to get it fixed, consequences of getting lost on a mountain or third degree burns on my back or lack of sleep or maybe I was just drunk, lost a fight with a concrete wall,
toughed it out till I got home, one week with a broken fist in a foreign country, its like its 80 years old, it’s a barometer they grind when its going to rain or maybe its just in my head
My left hand, really no one cares, its already faded in the middle, shoved a smouldering match into it years ago, I was sixteen looking for attention, no one really cared John Funk threatened to kick my ass if it happened again, we don’t talk now

When I look down I can see my feet, but its okay I know they are fine, like anyone they hurt sometimes other times they last me a weekend in Chicago Lolapalooza and I don’t realize they’re there, they take me to my next adventure or my next story, I guess they’re the same thing, my ultimate memory

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