Tuesday, March 22, 2011

slow art of decay

I was given a rose for valentine's day. typical. It is still in a vase on my nightstand. atypical.

The first thirty-six hours of my possession went well. Said rose was red. Said rose was sweet-smelling. Kind (albeit temporary) pleasures of my dismembered rose bush member. Decay was always inevitable.

Petals still intact. Wrinkled now, submissive. Stem half black half green, have resigned half mulish. I could throw rose away, but let's not rush this.  

forgotten untitled attempts

I watch mountains. Not close
where inconsistency suggests imperfection.
I watch mountains distantly.
Blue, illusively perfect.

You tore into me
              and left
leaving me to gather
what remains
of my guard.

the pull of entropy

I am a notoriously infrequent writer. Notorious to myself, if to no one else. I start writing creatively only to drop it. Or critique it into oblivion. Or forget about its existence full stop. Or in those rarest of instances where I finally write something I'm even marginally proud of, I hide it. I'm very crafty, you see. I have many hiding places. 

I didn't always hide; I was braver before. In my first year of middle school I would write poetry, often. I would dig into whatever recesses existed in my twelve-year-old mind and share my finding with full classrooms without the reserve and embarrassment I would somehow adopt a few months later. Confidence failed, typical of adolescence, I suppose, and poetry failed suit. 

Perhaps I should make amends with the past. 

In an uncharacteristic play on consistency, I intend to write more. Openly. What follows I expect will be both unique and quite mundane. My thoughts, attempts, frustrations, fragmented memoriesmy disorganized matter. I cannot promise art. I can hardly promise readability, coherency, or logic. I can only promise honesty.