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).