Better Living Through Introspection

The Poet’s Hands

A sequel to the popular Poets can be so neurotic.

What next, genius?

You’ve failed to make your bed –
how do you expect to lie in it?
Callously, perhaps — that would be
a refreshingly new tack: to lie
instead of to truth; smiling and winking
cool-heartedly through the remainder,
instead of bumbling
stumbling,
goofily reaching as you did
for the handle of the passenger door
and missing because your brain wasn’t quick enough
to process so many thoughts at once:
this is my house, this is my stop, here
where the tree was cut down last fall,
this is where i get out, thanks for the ride,
I had a good time (you’ll be kicking yourself
for days over that one), how does this door
open, there’s no way I can casually lean over
and kiss her is there? no, i thought not,
the dance be damned, am I not allowed a signal,
a sign, a hint, please, just say something,
anything — ah! –
the handle!

What next, genius, you ask yourself
as you walk slowly up the stairs,
feeling the pressure of her leg
against yours, back there in the theatre,
her shoulder against yours
in the dark.

What next, you ask, as she drives away
with your memory beside her.

Small World, Part II

I’m listening to a live techno radio broadcast from France (not sure where the physical station is located, probably Nice — at least, that’s where one of the servers is located — I’m sure if I could read French, it wouldn’t be such a mystery). Now, as far as technology goes, that’s nothing amazing; as far as the web goes, that’s nothing amazing. I know this.

But dammit, I’m grooving to the same tracks that the kids en France are and I figure what with the time difference they’re either on the way home from work, or at a monday night happy hour, or getting ready to go out and party, and, that is just too cool.

Even though they’re, you know, French.

So what’s my point? Well, I could attempt to revive that tired old cliché about how technology brings us together, but that’s such old hat it should be re-blocked, and it’s more worn out than my Kenneth-Cole-pieces-of-mad-cow-passing-as-shoes. So aside from the global togertheness thing, what does that leave us with? Merely an observation, sans commentaire. I think the observation alone speaks for itself.

Translations courtesy of babel fish. Don’t hold me responsible.

Small World, Part I

Ladies and gentlemen, the Panama Canal Miraflores lock.

Happiness

is finally hooking your computer up to your stereo so that you can enjoy philosomatika at home as much as you do at work.

Don’t get me wrong, I completely understand how geeky that is of me, but hell, it’s the little geek chic things in life that make me happy, and I’ve learned to accept that. So should you.

If it makes any difference to you, I’ve got the NASCAR going on in the background, courtesy of them good ol’ boys over at FOX.

So I’m catching up on my nerd reading

over at A List Apart and I fried my brain on this little number by Mark Bernstein of Eastgate. I’m now going to soak in the sun while I let all this settle in.

Maybe I’ll ruminate about my innocent college days when I thought writing hypertext fiction would be a cool thing to do.