Draft.

If I were the kind of man who spoke in sports metaphor
I’d say I lost the title. That giant belt
they give you at the end of a match when
you’re sweating onto that big field of blue.
Gold and gilded, toothless and tasting copper.

But, I’m still not sure why men talk about belts and boats
like they’re women,
and women like they’re something to be won.

It seems I’ve always been a better cartographer
than punch puller and
so I write to you about road trips, and miss you
in a way that makes
posturing masculinity seem
momentarily reasonable.

I know you always liked a good fight.

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ICU

Puffy faced and delirious,
feet smaller, vocal chords
stretched,
pulling the back of my throat
with every step.

You, at the other end of
sticky fingers, stomach flus,
teenage-I-hate-you’s sunk
into the hallways of
houses where we slept and
never lived.

A tomato soup stained
tornado of learned things.

Please don’t laugh

I’m afraid you’ll
choke.

300 Conversations About One Thing

I’ve been trying for a minute to suss out what it is I want to write about. I’m still relatively sure that I don’t even now what I’m doing pretending to have like, a blog or whatever this is. It seems, short of discussing my personal life in great detail on the internet (Thanks for teaching me the skillz, Livejournal), I don’t have much experience. But! I’m spastic-ly enthusiastic about it, and so I continue to come back to you, little blog.

Life is still pretty fun and funny over here. The fall is definitely upon us, and yesterday I had to turn on the heat in my drafty apartment and crawl underneath a pile of flannel when I returned home from playing in this queer kickball tournament. After consuming three cups of throat coat tea and watching two episodes of Battlestar Galactica, I passed out at 9pm. Because, that’s how I like to roll in the Autumn, dudes. Other important activities that i’d like to note are: eating peanut butter at three a.m., wearing scarves, having nightmares about pivot tables and bar graphs (thanks, day job!), having not-so-nightmares about slow dancing to R & B hits from the mid-nineties with a pretty lady, and buying flowers for myself at the farmer’s market.

Kickball. Yogaball. Having a ball.

Anyway here’s some other news and things I’m excited about/amused by:

– The folks at The Portland Review put up a few more of my lil’ poems on their rad blog: here, here and here. This one is trending on tumblr now, which sort of freaks me out a little, but hey. Who doesn’t love a rampantly metaphorical emotionally stunted poem about my ex-girlfriend?

– A little story by me about my intense and strange relationship with my mother is going to go up on the Original Plumbing blog sometime in the next few months. So, that’s cool and totally nerve wracking because like, that kind of realness isn’t something that my fam really does on the regular.

– I’m sort of obsessed with St. Vincent, and missed her show in Seattle (doh!) but am somewhat satiated by this hysterical and insightful post from Mr. Boehmer on the Ironing Board Collective blog.

– Have I mentioned that I am in total LIKE with The Ironing Board? Well, I am. This morning I snickered so much while reading this post that I blew a big splash of emergen-c water out through my nose (grody/warranted).