Museum
After a day like this and a night like that,
I become aware that my brow is furrowed
As I go up the escalator.
If you were to look at me really close, past the forehead freckles,
It's like there's a hamster who lives inside my head.
He's been running on his wheel all day.
And he's just exhausted because you made him run so fast.
His legs are slack and slowing down;
He's panting through my ommitted stanzas.
It occurs to me, as I envision him
Bent over with his little hands on his knees,
That Iris would say:
"That's not poetry. Those are just statements."
---
Yeah. Probably because I cut so damn much out of it.
Things I miss:
-Civic olive to man baby
-Writing all the time
-Learning to play the guitar
-The restaurant club
-Watching "The Brave Little Toaster" late at night
-Sketchy Girls: the zine that never was
-Improv
-Playing "heaving bosoms" in book stores
-Peppermint hot chocolate
-Code names for boys
-Getting stoned and acting like a moron (Is that wrong?)
-Running around in wool socks and men's underwear
-Going to the museum or the art gallery just because
-Borrowing clothes
-The Sesame Street Christmas special
-Milkshakes at Fran's
-The smell and the cats in Courage My Love
-College and Spadina
-People Watching at Future's
Will I ever look back on the present and miss it?
All of that said, I think I'm wicked pretty. Yeah, I've got bad skin, uncontrollable hair and I'm on the chubby side, but I love me. I have big eyes, excellent colouring, cute little freckles, a beauty mark next to my right eye, nice collar bones, a long neck, tiny extremities and a rack to be reckonned with. As much as I worry about it, I'd feel so fucking lucky to wake up next to me, even when I'm all bed headed and smudgey and disoriented. I get it even better, though. I get to wake as me.
I'm going to let Mr. Nibbles (the name of my brain hamster, of course) retreat to his habitrail home.
Edited to add: Who's going to be my date to go see the new Harry Potter movie/Rent?
I become aware that my brow is furrowed
As I go up the escalator.
If you were to look at me really close, past the forehead freckles,
It's like there's a hamster who lives inside my head.
He's been running on his wheel all day.
And he's just exhausted because you made him run so fast.
His legs are slack and slowing down;
He's panting through my ommitted stanzas.
It occurs to me, as I envision him
Bent over with his little hands on his knees,
That Iris would say:
"That's not poetry. Those are just statements."
---
Yeah. Probably because I cut so damn much out of it.
Things I miss:
-Civic olive to man baby
-Writing all the time
-Learning to play the guitar
-The restaurant club
-Watching "The Brave Little Toaster" late at night
-Sketchy Girls: the zine that never was
-Improv
-Playing "heaving bosoms" in book stores
-Peppermint hot chocolate
-Code names for boys
-Getting stoned and acting like a moron (Is that wrong?)
-Running around in wool socks and men's underwear
-Going to the museum or the art gallery just because
-Borrowing clothes
-The Sesame Street Christmas special
-Milkshakes at Fran's
-The smell and the cats in Courage My Love
-College and Spadina
-People Watching at Future's
Will I ever look back on the present and miss it?
All of that said, I think I'm wicked pretty. Yeah, I've got bad skin, uncontrollable hair and I'm on the chubby side, but I love me. I have big eyes, excellent colouring, cute little freckles, a beauty mark next to my right eye, nice collar bones, a long neck, tiny extremities and a rack to be reckonned with. As much as I worry about it, I'd feel so fucking lucky to wake up next to me, even when I'm all bed headed and smudgey and disoriented. I get it even better, though. I get to wake as me.
I'm going to let Mr. Nibbles (the name of my brain hamster, of course) retreat to his habitrail home.
Edited to add: Who's going to be my date to go see the new Harry Potter movie/Rent?