Darren swung back and forth lethargically. His head was bent, and on the downswings of his arc, his feet would scuttle across the ground, kicking up plumes of dust. In time, his arc would decay, and be set in motion once more by a languid push.
Across the lake, the reddening sun fell to the earth. It pushed against what little air separated it from the horizon, creating a wave of pressure that hit Darren in the form of a warm breeze. He lifted his head and heard a crunching of gravel, characteristic of car tires in a parking lot. Turning his head revealed the white Corsica of Karen Moore. Darren looked back over the water and continued swinging, but now more conscious of his body he fiddled with his hands as she approached.
“I love the swings,” she said, setting down her purse and hopping into the swing next to his. They rocked for a while in silence. “I betcha I can go higher,” she teased.
“I’m not in the mood,” Darren replied, head down again. They swung back and forth a few more times. “It’s just, everybody I know is so fake, you know? Fucking Carl thinks he’s the best actor in the world, but if he’s not going to take notes the whole show’s going to suck. And Karly…”
“Am I fake?” Karen asked, slowing her motion to a stop. Darren stopped and finally looked over at her. She pursed her lips as if modeling for a fashion magazine, and Darren laughed despite himself.
“Now? Yes.”
“What?” Karen said, Her hand flew to her chest in feigned shock.
Darren laughed. His head was up, his eyes were lit, and for the first time since the horrible play practice, he felt like himself again.
“Thanks for coming out here,” he said, after the laughter had subsided. Karen smiled at him, grabbed her purse, and reached out her hand.
“Come on,” she said, as Darren let her pull him out of the swing. “Lets go get some milkshakes.”
As they left the park, the sun completed its setting. The sky grew dark, and a million points of light shone on two cars winding their way towards the nearest Red Robin.
Adapted from Everything, a Muffled Silence
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Ascendency
Like a cloud I rose
drifting upwards to kiss the
needle point of an
earthen cliff.
The pack I carried
clanked against my back
and I paused,
slowed,
stopped completely
to hear the voice of my climbing gear
echo against the great walls of stone.
A faint breeze licked the side
of that face of desolation
like a newborn to a mother's breast.
A blackberry bush, growing against convention
swayed gently in that whir
and I knew I was home.
drifting upwards to kiss the
needle point of an
earthen cliff.
The pack I carried
clanked against my back
and I paused,
slowed,
stopped completely
to hear the voice of my climbing gear
echo against the great walls of stone.
A faint breeze licked the side
of that face of desolation
like a newborn to a mother's breast.
A blackberry bush, growing against convention
swayed gently in that whir
and I knew I was home.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Notemaker Ballad
Who, I ask (not knowing why,
or what, or how, or when), am I?
I've asked before, and thought I knew
but always am I reduced to
the thought that maybe in the end
a man alone is man's best friend.
It's not a thought I'd like to keep
but if I don't soon make a leap
it's in this frame of mind I'll stay
no matter what I do or say.
God dammit! Why can't I break free
of social norms constricting me?
I speak as freely as I can
but never do I take the chance
that's laid before me plain to see.
In times like these it's time to be
a one man aristocracy;
to claim the right to speak my mind,
remove myself from daily grind,
destroy the chains that bind the heart
and force us all to stay apart.
For if I play by culture's rule,
and slave along as if a tool
I'll only serve to build a wall
dividing us from one for all.
And all for one will be a dream
that flashes on the silver screen
before the nightman takes us out
because our life is not about
the unity of common man
but sticking to a silly plan
of iron covered up with gold
and all our virtues being sold
to money for a killer deal
because we don't know how to feel
anything anymore.
or what, or how, or when), am I?
I've asked before, and thought I knew
but always am I reduced to
the thought that maybe in the end
a man alone is man's best friend.
It's not a thought I'd like to keep
but if I don't soon make a leap
it's in this frame of mind I'll stay
no matter what I do or say.
God dammit! Why can't I break free
of social norms constricting me?
I speak as freely as I can
but never do I take the chance
that's laid before me plain to see.
In times like these it's time to be
a one man aristocracy;
to claim the right to speak my mind,
remove myself from daily grind,
destroy the chains that bind the heart
and force us all to stay apart.
For if I play by culture's rule,
and slave along as if a tool
I'll only serve to build a wall
dividing us from one for all.
And all for one will be a dream
that flashes on the silver screen
before the nightman takes us out
because our life is not about
the unity of common man
but sticking to a silly plan
of iron covered up with gold
and all our virtues being sold
to money for a killer deal
because we don't know how to feel
anything anymore.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Letter 3: What Would it Take?
If you had disabled PMs, we would have never figured it out. Unless I started talking to Will... I wouldn't call that a failure though. It was fun while it lasted and it gave me a very strong sense of pride. Also I was introduced to Megan which is a good thing too. :) (Our everyday readers will have no idea what we're talking about, but that's okay, I've decided--I'm not writing a letter to them now am I?)
Well I know I've told you the story about how I actually met the Notemaker but I think it's something that deserves a re-pondering... so as I was thinking about it, I was wondering who would make the best Notemaker character... I've realized for a while now that the Notemaker's thoughts aren't so different from what makes other cultures more open. The chasms between us as American's are pretty exclusively American. We have to appologize for everything, even bumping into people. And we think, well, it's not that big of a deal, it's not something we should have to appologize for all the time... but when you think about it, anybody bumping into you without appologizing is instantly a jerk, even if you're not bothered by the fact that it happened.
All this to say that the Notemaker should have some sort of international experience. And I thought about a friend of mine who has some international experience, and I thought about his personality and I realized that he's perfect. :)
Finals went well. I'm pretty sure I laid the beatdown on them (not that big of an accomplishment in the sense of traditional finals). I pretty much waited until the last minute for both, and then just... put out good pieces of work. I did a slam poem for my postcolonial literature class that talked about many of the themes of the class, and everybody clapped after I had finished. (They, uh, didn't clap for anyone else >_>). I had planned on posting it separately, but I might as well just post it here, since it's on topic:
What Would it Take?
by Matt Lund
The end of the course
seems to demand
that we ask the tough questions
or the questions at hand
what’s the point?
what do we do?
when our fifteen choices of peanut butter
stare
back
blankly
and ask us again
what do we do?
understanding hunger does not feed the hungry
understanding loss does not console the suffering
and if it did
have I gone to far to suggest that we
understand at all?
Readers might say, with greatest intent,
“I know what they went through”
Please,
you read it in a book
anyone could take a look
at that and come away with your
“understanding”
But fine, let’s see what it is you’ve read
The Inheritance of Loss? Cast Me Out if you Will? The Hamilton Case?
These books scratch the surface of colonial aftermath
“They’re political works,” you will say
and I’ll laugh
Do you think you felt rape in that last paragraph?
Yes, it’s true they’re political
like it or not
but should we deny what aesthetics they’ve brought
to the table? Or is it that all South Asian works are the same
they all deal with poverty, colonialism, or pain?
So the writers adhere to this system, or what?
we have free speech, yes
but when we at last have been put to the test
will we say what we want to if it will not sell?
I’m being facetious
It’s hard not to be when from every angle,
from every sight I see there’s no right way
no wrong way to interpret these things
authenticity
big elephant in the room
how to please both sides closing in like a tomb
while the publisher sees that the market’s gone west
“They’ll eat this book up, without a contest”
and the grandparents feel that they’re being ignored
while the sellouts get rich and the poor
well
the power of language
to create
to destroy
disenfranchisement is part of the ploy
but America’s drunk on the brown millionaire
just jumping to know that they too get a share
never mind that its fiction
it’s enough that we care
but in seconds turn back to our primetime television
is that wrong?
what obligation do we have to do otherwise?
well the documentarians might say we’re
implicated
that their history is ours
and that’s true to some point
when we look at the sky we can see the same stars
so as people, they might say, we have hardly a choice
we must put aside something in support
(that’s not a mandate of course)
But they’re wrong—I don’t owe anything to Nepal
or to India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, or Sri Lanka
and I don’t know the filmmakers,
I don’t know their child
I don’t have breakfast with their families once in a while
Wait, I’m making this sound all wrong
I don’t mean to say that my thanks don’t belong
at least somewhere
But as you can see
I don’t necessarily owe things to the documentary
Look nobody’s outside of power relations
or culture, or pride
what I’m saying is I’m implicated to myself
It’s not that the film has inspired me to help
it’s that when it’s been said through and through
if it touches me and if it touches you
it’s our feelings to which we owe action, if anything
because in those moments of
held back tears
when you see people make a living
by crushing brick…
Well, let’s throw them computers
and hope that will solve
colonialism
I mean, technology can
as they say
open doors
Is that all we’ve learned at the end of this course?
Or course not!
Globalization is just another name
for easy solutions that, in the end,
have great consequences.
Think Partition
That’s all I have to say
What would it take for me to
fill in the blank
What would it take?
Letter 2
Response 2
Well I know I've told you the story about how I actually met the Notemaker but I think it's something that deserves a re-pondering... so as I was thinking about it, I was wondering who would make the best Notemaker character... I've realized for a while now that the Notemaker's thoughts aren't so different from what makes other cultures more open. The chasms between us as American's are pretty exclusively American. We have to appologize for everything, even bumping into people. And we think, well, it's not that big of a deal, it's not something we should have to appologize for all the time... but when you think about it, anybody bumping into you without appologizing is instantly a jerk, even if you're not bothered by the fact that it happened.
All this to say that the Notemaker should have some sort of international experience. And I thought about a friend of mine who has some international experience, and I thought about his personality and I realized that he's perfect. :)
Finals went well. I'm pretty sure I laid the beatdown on them (not that big of an accomplishment in the sense of traditional finals). I pretty much waited until the last minute for both, and then just... put out good pieces of work. I did a slam poem for my postcolonial literature class that talked about many of the themes of the class, and everybody clapped after I had finished. (They, uh, didn't clap for anyone else >_>). I had planned on posting it separately, but I might as well just post it here, since it's on topic:
What Would it Take?
by Matt Lund
The end of the course
seems to demand
that we ask the tough questions
or the questions at hand
what’s the point?
what do we do?
when our fifteen choices of peanut butter
stare
back
blankly
and ask us again
what do we do?
understanding hunger does not feed the hungry
understanding loss does not console the suffering
and if it did
have I gone to far to suggest that we
understand at all?
Readers might say, with greatest intent,
“I know what they went through”
Please,
you read it in a book
anyone could take a look
at that and come away with your
“understanding”
But fine, let’s see what it is you’ve read
The Inheritance of Loss? Cast Me Out if you Will? The Hamilton Case?
These books scratch the surface of colonial aftermath
“They’re political works,” you will say
and I’ll laugh
Do you think you felt rape in that last paragraph?
Yes, it’s true they’re political
like it or not
but should we deny what aesthetics they’ve brought
to the table? Or is it that all South Asian works are the same
they all deal with poverty, colonialism, or pain?
So the writers adhere to this system, or what?
we have free speech, yes
but when we at last have been put to the test
will we say what we want to if it will not sell?
I’m being facetious
It’s hard not to be when from every angle,
from every sight I see there’s no right way
no wrong way to interpret these things
authenticity
big elephant in the room
how to please both sides closing in like a tomb
while the publisher sees that the market’s gone west
“They’ll eat this book up, without a contest”
and the grandparents feel that they’re being ignored
while the sellouts get rich and the poor
well
the power of language
to create
to destroy
disenfranchisement is part of the ploy
but America’s drunk on the brown millionaire
just jumping to know that they too get a share
never mind that its fiction
it’s enough that we care
but in seconds turn back to our primetime television
is that wrong?
what obligation do we have to do otherwise?
well the documentarians might say we’re
implicated
that their history is ours
and that’s true to some point
when we look at the sky we can see the same stars
so as people, they might say, we have hardly a choice
we must put aside something in support
(that’s not a mandate of course)
But they’re wrong—I don’t owe anything to Nepal
or to India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, or Sri Lanka
and I don’t know the filmmakers,
I don’t know their child
I don’t have breakfast with their families once in a while
Wait, I’m making this sound all wrong
I don’t mean to say that my thanks don’t belong
at least somewhere
But as you can see
I don’t necessarily owe things to the documentary
Look nobody’s outside of power relations
or culture, or pride
what I’m saying is I’m implicated to myself
It’s not that the film has inspired me to help
it’s that when it’s been said through and through
if it touches me and if it touches you
it’s our feelings to which we owe action, if anything
because in those moments of
held back tears
when you see people make a living
by crushing brick…
Well, let’s throw them computers
and hope that will solve
colonialism
I mean, technology can
as they say
open doors
Is that all we’ve learned at the end of this course?
Or course not!
Globalization is just another name
for easy solutions that, in the end,
have great consequences.
Think Partition
That’s all I have to say
What would it take for me to
fill in the blank
What would it take?
Letter 2
Response 2
Friday, March 13, 2009
Letter 2: Library
John,
I'm envious of one thing right off the bat--I don't really remember how I meet people. I might remember the odd anecdote about close friends (and not close ones--these are the most fun because they have no idea why I remember personal things about them from the first grade). I met one friend while playing in the band for graduation. I've met others in classes, at jobs, and at church. But nothing stands out that is so anecdotal as yours, and that makes me sad, even though I know that it doesn't really play a part in the quality of a friendship.
Also, I have to thank you for reminding me about that social network thing I had in mind. I remember having an intense feeling of pleasure when I came up with the name because I found it clever. (You'll remember Ner0, utilizing the phonetic sounds of n, er, and a 0 to represent a circle... inner circle... oh, the memories of failed attempts at glory)
I have to say, one of the greatest things about the English major is that... there is no weed out. At all. I've mentioned this before, I'm sure, but I didn't even have to write anything to apply! To the English major! Of course, the real gold mine (the Creative Writing track) has a terrifying 13% acceptance rate.
FYI, sprink break is a more commonly used term for the spring break that falls ludicrously before my own. I still find your baking of bread quite fascinating. It's not usually on people's list of, say, hobbies. Which isn't to say it's a bad thing--there are two types of food: good bread and everything else.
(All of my paragraphs start with "I." Hopefully that doesn't mean I'm self-absorbed...)
And by all means, buy a camera. You should know as well as I do that little is more liberating than the artistic process (why isn't there an artistic method to compliment the scientific one?) no matter what form it takes. What you need to do is get hired at an office store, and have that office store be closed down, and buy a discount camera like I did.
As for a "blog war," you'll find that in conversation proceeded thus: "let's have an epic blog back and forth." I am now of the belief that you inserted the term "war" yourself, which leads me to be concerned about your current psychological state (not really). But if it is a battle of the wits you desire, you shall have one!
---
Library
inspired by:
Ode to the Lonely Hearted - Sugar Ray
Library closing in, voices crowd out
thoughts of finals that arguably,
occupying your time, would be of more use.
Honestly, here? You could socialize at
a cafe, or a park. An ice cream parlor
a dormitory lounge, a trendy restaurant,
or, hey, a group study room.
Yet chatting frustrates
not because of the library, but
because it reminds me of all the voices
that don't say anything
to me
---
How's that? (Aside from emo)
-Matt
---
Response 1
Letter 1
I'm envious of one thing right off the bat--I don't really remember how I meet people. I might remember the odd anecdote about close friends (and not close ones--these are the most fun because they have no idea why I remember personal things about them from the first grade). I met one friend while playing in the band for graduation. I've met others in classes, at jobs, and at church. But nothing stands out that is so anecdotal as yours, and that makes me sad, even though I know that it doesn't really play a part in the quality of a friendship.
Also, I have to thank you for reminding me about that social network thing I had in mind. I remember having an intense feeling of pleasure when I came up with the name because I found it clever. (You'll remember Ner0, utilizing the phonetic sounds of n, er, and a 0 to represent a circle... inner circle... oh, the memories of failed attempts at glory)
I have to say, one of the greatest things about the English major is that... there is no weed out. At all. I've mentioned this before, I'm sure, but I didn't even have to write anything to apply! To the English major! Of course, the real gold mine (the Creative Writing track) has a terrifying 13% acceptance rate.
FYI, sprink break is a more commonly used term for the spring break that falls ludicrously before my own. I still find your baking of bread quite fascinating. It's not usually on people's list of, say, hobbies. Which isn't to say it's a bad thing--there are two types of food: good bread and everything else.
(All of my paragraphs start with "I." Hopefully that doesn't mean I'm self-absorbed...)
And by all means, buy a camera. You should know as well as I do that little is more liberating than the artistic process (why isn't there an artistic method to compliment the scientific one?) no matter what form it takes. What you need to do is get hired at an office store, and have that office store be closed down, and buy a discount camera like I did.
As for a "blog war," you'll find that in conversation proceeded thus: "let's have an epic blog back and forth." I am now of the belief that you inserted the term "war" yourself, which leads me to be concerned about your current psychological state (not really). But if it is a battle of the wits you desire, you shall have one!
---
Library
inspired by:
Ode to the Lonely Hearted - Sugar Ray
Library closing in, voices crowd out
thoughts of finals that arguably,
occupying your time, would be of more use.
Honestly, here? You could socialize at
a cafe, or a park. An ice cream parlor
a dormitory lounge, a trendy restaurant,
or, hey, a group study room.
Yet chatting frustrates
not because of the library, but
because it reminds me of all the voices
that don't say anything
to me
---
How's that? (Aside from emo)
-Matt
---
Response 1
Letter 1
Letter
John,
Today I've been thinking a lot about how we know people, which is an interesting concept especially in regard to our friendship. Through the years I've had a fair amount of close friends. Naturally that number has diminished over the years, as distances both physical and emotional increase. Some attend other colleges, some start making choices that I can't rightly support. Still others live close enough but never reach out. And that leaves me with a very select few. I'm not unhappy about that at all. If I'm unhappy about anything it's that I don't have a very close friend near my apartment at all. Someone that I can hang out with, write with, play basketball at the small park with. It sounds like an overly romanticized friendship, but honestly it can't be that rare. Can it?
I've always been the kind of person who needs attention--not to the point of acting out, but to the point where a certain amount of my self esteem depends on the fact that other people around me share similar interests and can appreciate me for who I am and what I do. I suppose I could say that I achieve this through my writing in a way. Though, I'm tempted to say that it's not enough, but that's a blatant lie. The happiest moments in my life are when I receive any sort of praise or compliments for my writing. I sit back and think "yeah, this is what it's all about." It's in these moments that I know I chose the right major, no matter how "impractical" it may seem.
I can tell that I'm writing here without much direction, so I might as well continue the trend. I AM UNBEARABLY FRUSTRATED with our social structures. It's almost impossible to meet and introduce yourself to new people. I say almost because, quite frankly, it's not at all. (I happen to be playing through Skies of Arcadia Legends at the moment, which as you know is all about never giving up). However, there's this ever present fear, both of rejection and of misinterpretation. You can't approach just any girl and strike up a conversation without her thinking you're only interested in that one thing (which I am SO not at this point in my life. I just want some g.d. companionship, some camaraderie, you know?).
Of course, this is what the Notemaker is all about. The irony is that I'm not the archetype for the Notemaker, I'm the archetype for the extras in the back, the ones who are inspired by the Notemaker. Can I write the Notemaker without being him? I probably can, or could, if I wasn't in a "writing slump" (subjectively, of course. Don't yell at me).
I appologize for going on about myself for so long. How are your classes? Did you have a good sprink break?
Looking forward to your reply,
Matt
Today I've been thinking a lot about how we know people, which is an interesting concept especially in regard to our friendship. Through the years I've had a fair amount of close friends. Naturally that number has diminished over the years, as distances both physical and emotional increase. Some attend other colleges, some start making choices that I can't rightly support. Still others live close enough but never reach out. And that leaves me with a very select few. I'm not unhappy about that at all. If I'm unhappy about anything it's that I don't have a very close friend near my apartment at all. Someone that I can hang out with, write with, play basketball at the small park with. It sounds like an overly romanticized friendship, but honestly it can't be that rare. Can it?
I've always been the kind of person who needs attention--not to the point of acting out, but to the point where a certain amount of my self esteem depends on the fact that other people around me share similar interests and can appreciate me for who I am and what I do. I suppose I could say that I achieve this through my writing in a way. Though, I'm tempted to say that it's not enough, but that's a blatant lie. The happiest moments in my life are when I receive any sort of praise or compliments for my writing. I sit back and think "yeah, this is what it's all about." It's in these moments that I know I chose the right major, no matter how "impractical" it may seem.
I can tell that I'm writing here without much direction, so I might as well continue the trend. I AM UNBEARABLY FRUSTRATED with our social structures. It's almost impossible to meet and introduce yourself to new people. I say almost because, quite frankly, it's not at all. (I happen to be playing through Skies of Arcadia Legends at the moment, which as you know is all about never giving up). However, there's this ever present fear, both of rejection and of misinterpretation. You can't approach just any girl and strike up a conversation without her thinking you're only interested in that one thing (which I am SO not at this point in my life. I just want some g.d. companionship, some camaraderie, you know?).
Of course, this is what the Notemaker is all about. The irony is that I'm not the archetype for the Notemaker, I'm the archetype for the extras in the back, the ones who are inspired by the Notemaker. Can I write the Notemaker without being him? I probably can, or could, if I wasn't in a "writing slump" (subjectively, of course. Don't yell at me).
I appologize for going on about myself for so long. How are your classes? Did you have a good sprink break?
Looking forward to your reply,
Matt
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Touch
If I were to be so bold as to sit by your side
And subtly (not so subtly) nudge your leg
with mine would you withdraw?
Or maybe on a better day
if you would venture me the same
I think I'd stay to feel your touch.
This loneliness is just too much.
And subtly (not so subtly) nudge your leg
with mine would you withdraw?
Or maybe on a better day
if you would venture me the same
I think I'd stay to feel your touch.
This loneliness is just too much.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Unnamed Poem, Parts I-VII
This is the "final" version (the latter parts still need some looking at).
I.
I want to stay friends, you said
on walking out the door.
But now a week has come and gone
and I don't hear from you anymore
A week perhaps is far too short
a time to judge a girl's intent
And I exaggerate, it's true
Because last night I heard from you
but all the same you only call
when you need something.
Is this a friendship? I can't tell.
I don't feel like I'm doing well,
but from your calls no one could say
that life, for one of us, is a constant struggle
II.
I'm getting laid off, my love interest
isn't quite so interested as I had hoped
and you sit there in your nice place
content because, well, you're engaged.
I want to channel happiness,
I want to be the happiest
of all the people that you know
because for you I've felt so strong
and really, I want to get along.
This time for you is probably exciting.
And more than that I'd say it's fact;
exciting is a half-bit word
that can’t convey the things I've heard
in voice inflection as you chat
with him, your lover - I know that.
But no matter how I try to feel some joy
inside, I'm dying. (Drama is my default game,
so apologies for speaking this way
I'm sorry if I "play the victim"
but it's hard to stop it when it's real.
And if that's not the way you feel
I get it.) Do I drag you down?
III.
Tomorrow I will interview
in Ballard. It would be nice
to work for the same company twice
assuming that I get the job, of course.
I’ll lose an hour every day in transport
whether I ride my bike or take the bus
but I can’t seem to make a fuss
in any sort of good conscience.
IV.
You called me late three nights ago
and, groggy, I picked up too late.
Your message on the following day
asked if I wanted to see your place
or maybe your puppy. You have a fiancée
and a puppy? That’s hardly fair!
(Don’t spread your fortune everywhere,
God knows I’d hate to get a share)
You say you’ll understand
if my final answer is a no
You think that I won’t want to go.
Well God damn. You’re right.
I never want to see his face
And if you’d left without a trace
(Not to mention the extra space
I’d have with all your things gone)
then maybe we could get along.
V.
“I'm still torn up,” is what I really said.
“Some things aren’t right inside my head.”
My love interest might be a fraud,
a rebound crush, which is not at all
the cure for my most recent fall.
“I'd love to discuss these things with you
and maybe ask what I should do.
Over dinner sometime, if that’s okay.”
And you responded in such a way…
“If you have anything to say,
you can e-mail me any time.” Wait, what?
A few short lines and down I’m shut?
Is this the way to treat a friend?
At least I still tried to connect.
Who knew? A horrible mistake.
Conceited you, what will it take
for you to know I know we’re through?
VI.
It looks like Ballard is a go
(at last some news that’s good to know).
What’s more, I may have gained some ground
in regard to that girl I found.
That’s not to say the thing will fly
but ignoring that, I got some time
with her (we watched the pilot of Firefly).
I won’t say things are looking up,
that things are going well,
but all the same I learned today
I’m better off the further away
I get from you.
VII.
She’s going to London this spring
and home for summer in Silverdale.
And if money wasn’t an obstacle,
or the application date hadn’t passed
I think I’d be there by her side.
Which sounds a little crazy,
or maybe contradictory,
but anything else would only be
a case of irresponsibility.
In life, if we don’t take a chance to live,
we’ll never make the good times last.
And now at last I think I see
the real reason that you left me.
I.
I want to stay friends, you said
on walking out the door.
But now a week has come and gone
and I don't hear from you anymore
A week perhaps is far too short
a time to judge a girl's intent
And I exaggerate, it's true
Because last night I heard from you
but all the same you only call
when you need something.
Is this a friendship? I can't tell.
I don't feel like I'm doing well,
but from your calls no one could say
that life, for one of us, is a constant struggle
II.
I'm getting laid off, my love interest
isn't quite so interested as I had hoped
and you sit there in your nice place
content because, well, you're engaged.
I want to channel happiness,
I want to be the happiest
of all the people that you know
because for you I've felt so strong
and really, I want to get along.
This time for you is probably exciting.
And more than that I'd say it's fact;
exciting is a half-bit word
that can’t convey the things I've heard
in voice inflection as you chat
with him, your lover - I know that.
But no matter how I try to feel some joy
inside, I'm dying. (Drama is my default game,
so apologies for speaking this way
I'm sorry if I "play the victim"
but it's hard to stop it when it's real.
And if that's not the way you feel
I get it.) Do I drag you down?
III.
Tomorrow I will interview
in Ballard. It would be nice
to work for the same company twice
assuming that I get the job, of course.
I’ll lose an hour every day in transport
whether I ride my bike or take the bus
but I can’t seem to make a fuss
in any sort of good conscience.
IV.
You called me late three nights ago
and, groggy, I picked up too late.
Your message on the following day
asked if I wanted to see your place
or maybe your puppy. You have a fiancée
and a puppy? That’s hardly fair!
(Don’t spread your fortune everywhere,
God knows I’d hate to get a share)
You say you’ll understand
if my final answer is a no
You think that I won’t want to go.
Well God damn. You’re right.
I never want to see his face
And if you’d left without a trace
(Not to mention the extra space
I’d have with all your things gone)
then maybe we could get along.
V.
“I'm still torn up,” is what I really said.
“Some things aren’t right inside my head.”
My love interest might be a fraud,
a rebound crush, which is not at all
the cure for my most recent fall.
“I'd love to discuss these things with you
and maybe ask what I should do.
Over dinner sometime, if that’s okay.”
And you responded in such a way…
“If you have anything to say,
you can e-mail me any time.” Wait, what?
A few short lines and down I’m shut?
Is this the way to treat a friend?
At least I still tried to connect.
Who knew? A horrible mistake.
Conceited you, what will it take
for you to know I know we’re through?
VI.
It looks like Ballard is a go
(at last some news that’s good to know).
What’s more, I may have gained some ground
in regard to that girl I found.
That’s not to say the thing will fly
but ignoring that, I got some time
with her (we watched the pilot of Firefly).
I won’t say things are looking up,
that things are going well,
but all the same I learned today
I’m better off the further away
I get from you.
VII.
She’s going to London this spring
and home for summer in Silverdale.
And if money wasn’t an obstacle,
or the application date hadn’t passed
I think I’d be there by her side.
Which sounds a little crazy,
or maybe contradictory,
but anything else would only be
a case of irresponsibility.
In life, if we don’t take a chance to live,
we’ll never make the good times last.
And now at last I think I see
the real reason that you left me.
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