Wow, that makes what’s about to follow either teenagery or pretentious or both (I dished out my fair share of pretentious writing when I was a teenager, and some just the other week, too). Anyway, I took my son to a birthday part at an indoor trampoline place, which was loud and insane. It was kind of like a brightly lit dance club minus the alcohol and drugs and the addition of kids. Once my son was jumping his heart out, I reached into my bag for my journal, but I’ve taken it our (something I rarely do). With no other choice, I wrote using the memo app on my phone. I usually treat my phone for its intended purpose–you know, calling people–and also as a glorified music player. I don’t write on it. But I killed nearly an hour doing so, and I’ll post the results over the next few days, along with part of a story I’m working on.
No title for this one yet, and I don’t know if I’ll continue working on it:
There’s a quantity of uncharted water in your eyes
should you ever desire a navigator, a boatman
acquainted with grim tides and dismal waterfalls,
the cataracts of regrets blooming in the rising mist.
Five fathoms in, and I’m more experienced than half
the crew that labors at the dock, lusting for you
as your shadow crosses itself at the window.
The moon’s done with me–I’m left
with sun-drenched seas which never satisfy
the urges for shadows broken by cold light.
I pray you need me soon, that your compass
is twisted and canted by the rough waves
that you’re desperate enormous to call my name,
if only to remind me what it is.