as if we caught one another like colds
Today's poem:
The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy
by Jeffrey McDaniel
Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end
of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women-those you write poems about
and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction
lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast
as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power
never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely
a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,
as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long
regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light
of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing
into each other's ears-as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle-didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses
I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out
of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years
to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate
to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.
***
I enjoyed last night's Elementary. I thought they did some really great character work with Joan and Sherlock. I was distracted so I didn't quite follow the end of the case, but I don't think it really matters. Also, CLYDE! I love you and I think you should give T. Swift another listen!
In other news, I discovered why Pinboard savior had stopped working - the unfortunate insertion of a smart quote when I added another term to the blacklist - so it's working again. Whew.
And lastly, I posted a story yesterday:
This Town Is a Song About You (at AO3)
Captain America; Steve/Bucky, Rikki Barnes; pg; 12,400 words
But sometimes, when his bed feels too big and too empty, Steve wishes for someone. (If that someone happens to be named Bucky Barnes, well, at least he's consistent.)
The Steve/Bucky Gilmore Girls AU nobody but me was asking for, with highly fictionalized Port Jefferson filling in for Stars Hollow. Originally it was going to be a total AU/fusion but I couldn't make the casting work quite right (though I'm pretty sure Clint was Kirk, because of course he was). I'm sad that there didn't end up being any room for an Emily-analogue, because you know how much I love Emily Gilmore, but I couldn't really figure out who it would be. There are some cool things in it, though. At least I think so. I certainly wouldn't mind getting fanart of "The Runaway Bucky." Anyway! I've been writing that story since October, so I'm a little at loose ends today. I don't know what to do! Luckily, I suppose, work has been somewhat busy. I'm just glad it's Friday.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/740213.html.
people have commented there.
The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy
by Jeffrey McDaniel
Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end
of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women-those you write poems about
and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction
lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast
as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power
never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely
a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,
as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long
regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light
of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing
into each other's ears-as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle-didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses
I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out
of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years
to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate
to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.
***
I enjoyed last night's Elementary. I thought they did some really great character work with Joan and Sherlock. I was distracted so I didn't quite follow the end of the case, but I don't think it really matters. Also, CLYDE! I love you and I think you should give T. Swift another listen!
In other news, I discovered why Pinboard savior had stopped working - the unfortunate insertion of a smart quote when I added another term to the blacklist - so it's working again. Whew.
And lastly, I posted a story yesterday:
This Town Is a Song About You (at AO3)
Captain America; Steve/Bucky, Rikki Barnes; pg; 12,400 words
But sometimes, when his bed feels too big and too empty, Steve wishes for someone. (If that someone happens to be named Bucky Barnes, well, at least he's consistent.)
The Steve/Bucky Gilmore Girls AU nobody but me was asking for, with highly fictionalized Port Jefferson filling in for Stars Hollow. Originally it was going to be a total AU/fusion but I couldn't make the casting work quite right (though I'm pretty sure Clint was Kirk, because of course he was). I'm sad that there didn't end up being any room for an Emily-analogue, because you know how much I love Emily Gilmore, but I couldn't really figure out who it would be. There are some cool things in it, though. At least I think so. I certainly wouldn't mind getting fanart of "The Runaway Bucky." Anyway! I've been writing that story since October, so I'm a little at loose ends today. I don't know what to do! Luckily, I suppose, work has been somewhat busy. I'm just glad it's Friday.
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/740213.html.
people have commented there.