I woke up in a closet.


Having sex with complicated forms.
February 19, 2008, 1:09 am
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The first time I heard a Sestina, it was Sestina: Bob, and it dulled the word so much that I wanted to slap people for saying “Bob” when referencing the poem afterwards. But, the poem was funny. At that time I didn’t have enough confidence to tackle the Sestina for an assignment (oh, the name is so pretty — I thought I would fuck it up — and the form is so easy to make cheesy) and it was optional so either way I’d be free. This year, I was forced to write a Sestina. They are hard. And in every lesson, Elizabeth Bishop’s Sestina is taught and makes you feel like you could never match something so bittersweet with such simple words. Last night I wrote a second Sestina and I liked the form. If I sit down and do something in an hour, I know the quality always sucks, but it’s done and it was fun to read.

Sestina 2/17/08

Twice a week, I make you eggs.
For each egg cooked, I give you an orgasm,
A favor you return within minutes
That leaves us both too exhausted
To wash the pans in the sink.
Plates are left crusted with breakfast.

Instead of dinner, I make you breakfast,
And by morning the drain is clogged by eggs.
Once I left the water on and it gushed out of the sink
While we were in the other room, reaching orgasm,
Ensuring the day’s exhaustion.
We slept for ten minutes,

Until water reached our room. For minutes
We toweled up the flood, and vowed that breakfast
Dishes would never be too much to exhaust
Us – no matter how dried-up the eggs,
Were, or how badly we wanted an orgasm.
But that never made morale sink.

Now our favorite place is next to the sink.
There, we go at it longer, about twenty minutes
More than usual, and you would not believe the orgasm!
It’s the kind that burns off breakfast
And makes us less guilty about the cholesterol in eggs.
I’m always washing dishes – that explains our exhaustion.

If we paced ourselves, we wouldn’t get so exhausted,
And we’d have a cleaner sink.
For a week, we went without buying eggs
And dish-washing took less than a minute,
But there was nothing to look forward to after breakfast,
Because without the eggs, there are no orgasms.

We realized we couldn’t live without orgasms
Even though for that week we weren’t so exhausted,
But why take the fun out of breakfast?
We just need to ignore the full sink
And take a few minutes
To make a new agreement regarding eggs.

The decision took a minute over breakfast:
As long as my eggs weren’t fertilized, the sink
Could stay full and orgasms could exhaust us.

Continue reading

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They exhausted themselves over and over, yet did it over and over.
January 27, 2008, 9:52 pm
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I’m taking psychology this semester, and it makes me sad.  Sciences ruin mysteries.

The world inside me is a cupboard filled with cans of condensed soup.  Every person who walks around inside that world is a can with different contents, but the same manufacturer.  Sometimes each can has a different purpose: for soup, for casserole, a thickening agent, a flavor.  The can has to be opened, then the cooking begins.  At night, my brain becomes a kitchen, and waking up – as if the act is eating the feast that I’ve prepared – makes me forget.

I remember when he, one of the characters (whom I will refer to as shadows, because how else would these people be imagined by another if they cannot see as vividly as I do),  joked about a monkey opening cans in the soup kitchen of the mind.  I like the idea of monkeys making presents out of thoughts and sharing them back and forth with each other between neurons, other parts of my brain.

I wonder: if I complained to authorities that a crime had been committed and I wanted to describe and identify the perpetrator, would a state commissioned artist be able to match the vision in my head based on my blurry description?  Could another person sharpen these shadows?

And who decides if we do keep our minds? Is it really up to us?  Is there a lottery involved?  Do we all have numbers?  When a glowing woman in a royal blue sequined dress pulls a numbered ping pong ball out of a juggling container, does she smile with those bleached chicklets and announce that it is another person’s turn to go before the mind council?  Who and what decides if we keep this blessing called “mind?”
For part of spring break I’ll be going back to Batavia/Buffalo.  February is a short month.