Some of the Good Stuff

Well, I'm feeling a little guilty for the shite that came out this morning, so here's some of what I'd say is good stuff. I only wrote it a couple of days ago.

And remember, part of my passion for writing is for the process. So here's two beginnings of poems that went unfinished, then the poem that came out, and finally just some writing that was inspired by the finished poem.



its snowing outside. my first
snow in seven seasons
theres soup on the stove
that winter kind of warm.

steam billows in front of frosted glass
basil heavy in the still air around me

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I wanted to write a poem
To read to you
About soup on the stove
Because it's a soup kind of day.
It's a you kind of day.

As I composed, however,
The soup boiled, bubbled up
Now the only flame is within me
Sliding down my esophagus
Steaming into my stomach
And there's brown sauce on my space bar.
This one bowl of soup
Feeding my writing forever.

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First Snow

I know in the ideal
I'd be writing a poem right now
But she would also be
In and out of sleep
Lying next to me naked
In softer sheets.

The light would be warmer
I'd have a scarf on.
This wouldn't be first snow,
But a weekend deep in December
With the branches piled high
And reflecting the candle
I forgot to light in this prose reality.

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(This next part just plays off of the ideal I wrote about in "First Snow." I just elaborated on the dream.)

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Maybe you'd be reading. Because the keys are too loud for you to sleep with. And I'd be here, in a blanket and a scarf. We'd constantly interrupt each other, then I'd lean over and kiss you. It would be comfortable, in the way I've always wanted it to be comfortable. The sun would fall in check boxes across your dark skin, constantly framing a new part of you. Maybe you would slowly migrate diagonally until your toes brushed my thigh, and I would play with your heel in the pauses, waiting for inspiration. I would have made us coffee and put extra sugar in yours even though you didn't ask for it. We wouldn't have anywhere to go all day, but I'm sure we would crave the outside air, and end up in a snowball fight, panting on the ground, held by the snowy earth. When our cheeks and noses got too cold, we'd come inside and build a fire, then I'd read you what I wrote, as we warmed ourselves and slurped down mini marshmallows.