running a tempest

In this moment
the subtle fever breaks-

oh,

clarity!

The revolting unity
between
this congenial illusion
and
this congenital self-doubt
has at long last

been
severed,

and like the storm that brews for days

threatening

with its oppressive humidity

and weight, and then

laughing at its childish power trip

sends relief cascading down from the blackened skies
this

crystal reflection of my reality

has graciously, powerfully unleashed itself upon

my insecure ocular nerve

and the yearning is

to dwell in this

to stain my walls with this bright red awareness-

but

the cutting,

blissfully melancholic truth is what follows:

this moment is

the mere, aching, brief glimpse

through the glass not so darkly

past which we will live looking

once culmination moves into that abandoned house down the block

and opens a friendly neighbourhood barbershop.

dyn-o-mite

Okay seriously, why didn't one of you mention that I haven't blogged in nearly a month? Inexcusable.

So, I've been rather busy.
I heard you laugh just then!
No, for actual.
I finally got myself a job, and I love everything about it. I'm learning so much that I get the same unbearable hunger pangs after an hour of work that I used to get during lit crit lectures. It's dynamite. Heyo, Galileo.
And when I have nothing to do at work (which, granted, is infrequently), I feel inspiration bubbling forth so forcefully from my soul to my fingertips that I am compelled to grab my graceful green pen and write. (I'm trying to say "green" in every entry. No, I'm not. But it's happening by accident, which is much better; nobody likes a try-hard.)

Impromptu transcription exercise! My verdant, ripped Hilroy pages are no Cristabel notebook, but I'm a-gonna Jerwood Centre this blog up anyway.



My co-workers must think I'm detoxing.

The accidental eyeline kills me every time
and I know I couldn't have made this more coincidental if I'd written it myself.
This is the true sadness of my existence:
a rich landscape of impossible happenstance
made commonplace.
You get sick of reading into it, trust me-
if I didn't, I'd never be able to finish a single book
(let alone that lit degree)

but I digress as I digest-

I've decided that your gaze,
the one that brings on these shakes that know no Demerol,
is more than male:
it is loaded but fleeting
and it has agency
and I'm beginning to think
that it's not crazy to think
that it can see without

looking
(and I thought I was a sneak).