Stolen Poetry
I was robbed two weeks ago tomorrow night, and every day I realize something else that is gone. They took my two (new) LCD flat screen tvs, my computer, my cameras, cash, my cordless phone, all my jewelry -- not to mention my already-tenuous sense of security.
Tonight I was standing in Barnes & Noble, trying to find a birthday present for my little brother but instead staring at the shelves of poetry wishing I felt anything resembling poetic these days, and I realized: they got all of my poems from inside my laptop. They weren't very good. Ask Mark Scroggins or anyone in the Poem in Practice class, but still. Still, there I am standing in front of the poetry books on the verge of tears (but just on the verge, which is a step in the right direction).
On the subject of poetry, I've always been a Bukowski fan, but just thumbing through his latest, I think he's run dry. Loneliness/sadness as gnawing dog? Have we not seen that before, like, a whole lot? Plus -- and maybe this is just me -- aren't we maybe tired of hearing about loneliness/sadness? It is what it is.
...
In my mind, no matter how hard I try to think of other things, it's Sunday February 13th around 11:30 at night and I keep walking up to my back door that goes in from the garage, trying the handle, finding it locked, saying to my friend on the phone, "I didn't lock this door. Something's not right." I convince myself I've locked it accidentally. I try the key. When it won't work, I realize it's been locked from the inside. I flee to the safety of my car, call my sister and ask my brother-in-law to come over. I feel bad, asking him to come over so late on a work night. I decide there's a logical explanation. I walk around the side of the house to the front door. Glass. Everywhere. And then I'm really fleeing and calling the police and hyperventilating and crying and it's just the beginning of the horrible realization of everything that's gone and the frustration at myself for not taking out that renter's insurance and then moving again and being surrounded, once again, with boxes that had only recently been unpacked.
I wish I could stop running to the backdoor to look out the peep hole to see if someone's in my garage. I wish I could stop turning off my iTunes to see if that noise I just heard was someone in my house. I wish my mother, as much as I dearly love her, would not have called tonight to tell me Dr. Phil's remedies for clutter. Among them: deny yourself wearing makeup until you've accomplished a specific cleaning goal. Somehow, that's just not helpful. Plus, well, I look so much better with makeup on. ;)
On a totally random note:
Here's a beautiful song to download: "Home" by Michael Buble.
Tonight I was standing in Barnes & Noble, trying to find a birthday present for my little brother but instead staring at the shelves of poetry wishing I felt anything resembling poetic these days, and I realized: they got all of my poems from inside my laptop. They weren't very good. Ask Mark Scroggins or anyone in the Poem in Practice class, but still. Still, there I am standing in front of the poetry books on the verge of tears (but just on the verge, which is a step in the right direction).
On the subject of poetry, I've always been a Bukowski fan, but just thumbing through his latest, I think he's run dry. Loneliness/sadness as gnawing dog? Have we not seen that before, like, a whole lot? Plus -- and maybe this is just me -- aren't we maybe tired of hearing about loneliness/sadness? It is what it is.
...
In my mind, no matter how hard I try to think of other things, it's Sunday February 13th around 11:30 at night and I keep walking up to my back door that goes in from the garage, trying the handle, finding it locked, saying to my friend on the phone, "I didn't lock this door. Something's not right." I convince myself I've locked it accidentally. I try the key. When it won't work, I realize it's been locked from the inside. I flee to the safety of my car, call my sister and ask my brother-in-law to come over. I feel bad, asking him to come over so late on a work night. I decide there's a logical explanation. I walk around the side of the house to the front door. Glass. Everywhere. And then I'm really fleeing and calling the police and hyperventilating and crying and it's just the beginning of the horrible realization of everything that's gone and the frustration at myself for not taking out that renter's insurance and then moving again and being surrounded, once again, with boxes that had only recently been unpacked.
I wish I could stop running to the backdoor to look out the peep hole to see if someone's in my garage. I wish I could stop turning off my iTunes to see if that noise I just heard was someone in my house. I wish my mother, as much as I dearly love her, would not have called tonight to tell me Dr. Phil's remedies for clutter. Among them: deny yourself wearing makeup until you've accomplished a specific cleaning goal. Somehow, that's just not helpful. Plus, well, I look so much better with makeup on. ;)
On a totally random note:
Here's a beautiful song to download: "Home" by Michael Buble.
posted by pamela at 11:28 PM
3 Comments:
this whole robbery thing sucks. i still can't believe you, sarah, and ahmed got robbed within 2 weeks of each other!
as for poetry, is there any other but the sad, lonely kind? i can't seem to get enough of it :)
Oh, all right, you win. Sad and lonely poetry it is. ;)
Where can I to learn abt it in detail?
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