i don't really live here.
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Below are the 18 most recent journal entries recorded in
apollo_18's LiveJournal:
| Tuesday, January 20th, 2015 | | 10:50 am |
really.
i don't really live here. see ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) iseethefnords for my real blog. although i might post some poetry or prose here once in a while. | | Thursday, September 6th, 2007 | | 12:17 am |
haiku
a dozen roses touch your doorstep a single heartbeat | | Saturday, June 2nd, 2007 | | 9:10 pm |
A Lemon, by Pablo Neruda
By Pablo Neruda Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight, love's lashed and insatiable essences, sodden with fragrance, the lemon tree's yellow emerges, the lemons move down from the tree's planetarium Delicate merchandise! The harbors are big with it- bazaars for the light and the barbarous gold. We open the halves of a miracle, and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions: creation's original juices, irreducible, changeless, alive: so the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb. Cutting the lemon the knife leaves a little cathedral: alcoves unguessed by the eye that open acidulous glass to the light; topazes riding the droplets, altars, aromatic facades. So, while the hand holds the cut of the lemon, half a world on a trencher, the gold of the universe wells to your touch: a cup yellow with miracles, a breast and a nipple perfuming the earth; a flashing made fruitage, the diminutive fire of a planet. Current Mood:  hopeful | | Friday, June 1st, 2007 | | 9:48 pm |
newly old
since i don't seem to have much to say these days in the realm of poetry (somewhat surprisingly), here's some older stuff. (it turns out to be rather difficult to find old poems that i want to share - no longer being in the headspace in which i wrote them, i tend to look at them more critically.) ( please to be clicking ) | | Wednesday, April 25th, 2007 | | 2:27 pm |
| | Sunday, April 15th, 2007 | | 10:22 pm |
that late-night moment
this is that late-night moment that witching hour when honesty becomes the only policy that particular instant when friends become lovers that moonlit time when boundaries are gossamer this is that late-night moment not drunk not sober when you told me your deepest fears not asleep not awake when you pulled me into the snowbank not giddy not serious when i reached out to kiss you this is that late-night moment that un-orchestrated setting when dancing is inevitable that spontaneous feeling when words flow like wine that late-night moment when anything is possible. Current Music: inspiration:"i saw your sign," datri bean | | Monday, February 12th, 2007 | | 8:59 pm |
rain and gasoline
i wrote this one back in 2001, around the time that most of my friends were graduating college. the smells of last night brought it back: falling asleep to the sounds of rain and traffic with the smell of carburetor cleaner and gasoline on my hands reminding me that i still haven't fixed things my truck my heart my life none of these seem to be functioning as designed unable to drive unable to love unable to understand life and it's this one last cliche'd summer before so many who i love disappear and i'm ever so slowly moving my thoughts and fixations from the past which cannot be changed or relived to the future which can only be better but it's a slow movement a soft-focus dissolve taking eons too long for my impatient heart that just might be satisfied with the knowledge that speed means nothing to the inevitable. | | Wednesday, November 15th, 2006 | | 3:48 pm |
may as well post this here, since there's not much writing going on lately
Howdy folks, Some of you might remember the dinner + drinks + loud music celebration that I put together last year for my birthday (insert joke here about me not remembering much of it). I'm going to do much the same thing again this year, and it'd be awesome if you all could come. So on Wednesday (11/22), I'll be doing a little dinner-and-drinks thing at the Collins Pub in Pioneer Square, followed by a little music-and-drinks thing at the Last Supper Club. I figure I'll get to the Collins Pub around 7ish, and the Last Supper Club around 10ish. The Collins Pub ( http://www.thecollinspub.com/, 526 2nd Ave) is a nifty little place just off of 2nd & Yesler that has some great food and an amazing beer selection. The Last Supper Club ( http://www.lastsupperclub.com, 124 S. Washington St) is sort of a typical nightclub, and on Wednesday my good friend Chloe is the opening DJ for a guy called Jimmy Van M. Cover is $10-15, I think, or presale tickets are available for $10 at http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/8567. Some music samples for those not familiar with these DJs: http://www.scdmusic.com/Kiss%20100%20FM%20Oct%2029,%202006%20-%20Jimmy%20van%20M.mp3http://www.further.org.uk/audio/chloe/Kiss_100_FM_Aug_13_2006-Chloe_Harris.mp3Please RSVP so I know if I need to give the Collins Pub advance warning. Thanks! | | Saturday, October 14th, 2006 | | 12:22 pm |
sponsor my mustache!
As some of you might have noticed, I shaved off my luxuriant beard this past week. This was not because I lost a bet, or because I miss getting carded at bars and liquor stores. Rather, I have just entered myself (or, more specifically, my upper lip) in the first annual Mustache-A-Thon for 826 Seattle. What, you may ask, is 826 Seattle, and what is a Mustache-A-Thon, and most importantly, how may you contribute to this noble cause? Read on, and all will be explained. First, 826 Seattle. Cleverly hidden behind the teleporter at the back of the Greenwood Space Travel Supply Store, 826 Seattle is a non-profit writing center dedicated to helping students aged 6-18 develop their creative and expository writing skills. They offer writing workshops, publishing projects, drop-in tutoring, and help with English language learning. All of their programs are structured around the belief that "great leaps in learning can happen with one-on-one attention and that strong writing skills are fundamental to a young person's success." Or, as one of the 826 students puts it, "On a scale of 1 to 10, it's like infinity. It's like a library, but all personal and stuff." Since all of 826 Seattle's programs are free, they seek financial help from many sources, including, but not limited to, mustaches. So from October 12 through November 16, I will be growing a mustache in order to help them raise money. 826 Seattle has a goal of raising $10,000 through the sponsorship of mustache growing, which will finance writing field trips, workshops, and the publication of an anthology of stories written by 826 Seattle students. So what I'm asking for is your sponsorship of my mustache. Any and all contributions are welcome, but to make things more interesting (as if mustache growing needed to be made more interesting), the person who has contributed the most by November 16 will get to choose the style of my mustache. Should I grow it in the style of Langston Hughes? Or Kurt Vonnegut? Perhaps the Arthur Conan Doyle style? Or the Frederick Nietzsche? Only you and your checkbook can decide. All donations are tax-deductible, and can be made right here via PayPal or at the official Mustache-A-Thon web site. More information on 826 Seattle can be found at their web site or by stopping by the Greenwood Space Travel Supply Store at 8414 Greenwood Ave N in Seattle. I thank you, my mustache thanks you, and most importantly, the kids of Seattle thank you. | | Monday, October 9th, 2006 | | 3:35 am |
eating poetry
I found this one while cleaning out some old files -- this was amongst my notes from 10th grade English class. Eating Poetry, by Mark Strand Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush. The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep. She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick her hand, she screams. I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark. | | Thursday, August 10th, 2006 | | 12:53 am |
the least immature reaction available
walking out just now walking out was the least immature reaction available to me just now walking out of this situation this situation this situation that i you we are in this evening this situation that here i am again and i've been here before years ago and so maybe i put myself here and yet maybe you maybe you put yourself here or i pulled you or you pushed me or or or but here we are and here we are and here i am having asked you out to the show asked you to spend just an evening with me not expecting love or lust or romance or sparks or dancing or (not expecting rationally or out loud but gosh wouldn't it be) just an evening you and me and here you are having anticipated this evening this time with me just time with me and dinner and drinks and a rock show and here he is having been introduced as your friend and yet wait he's your date from last week and he's there behind you with one hand on a beer and one hand on you and i and i and i expected nothing more nothing more (out loud) than time with you and a good time at the rock show and you lean into him and i have to look away and you lean into him and i overreact and i say i don't like it and you remind me it's over and i know that it's over and i say i don't like it and you lean into him and i'm gone. | | Thursday, July 27th, 2006 | | 10:08 am |
quote of the day
The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating. -Pearl S. Buck, novelist, Nobel laureate (1892-1973) | | Tuesday, July 18th, 2006 | | 2:16 am |
latenight brautigan
inspired by a late-night phone call and written by richard brautigan. some day, i will write like this. I Cannot Answer You Tonight in Small Portions, by Richard Brautigan I cannot answer you tonight in small portions. Torn apart by stormy love's gate, I float like a phantom facedown in a well where the cold dark water reflects vague half-built stars and trades all our affection, touching, sleeping together for tribunal distance standing like a drowned train just beyond a pile of Eskimo skeletons. Current Mood:  sleepyCurrent Music: hotel air conditioner | | Wednesday, July 5th, 2006 | | 9:27 pm |
you are not
you are not like me. your hands have each five fingers like mine and have touched things mine have touched and have touched things i do not know felt shapes and textures and bodies unknown to my hands unknowable to my touch your hips are flesh and bone like mine and have moved in time and rhythm with mine and have moved in paths i do not know danced and swayed and thrust in ways unknown to my hips unknowable to my body your mind is thought and desire like mine and has pondered mysteries my mind has pondered and has dreamed of futures hopes and wants i do not know questions and beliefs and expectations unknown to my mind unknowable to my thoughts your lips are firm and inquisitive like mine and have danced with tongue and teeth and lips of mine and have tasted flavors i do not know kissed food and water and flesh unknown to my lips unknowable to my tongue and you and you are not like me and you share desires and flaws and body and you share parts of you i do not know your hands hips mind lips known to me unknowable to me. | | Tuesday, June 27th, 2006 | | 12:05 am |
journey/juxtapose
it's desert hot walking away from the blinking shining flashing gleaming heart of this town separating myself with each step from the spinning clanking rubbing slinking dancing meat of this town and after an hour of this purge a flat lonely asphalt hike surrounded by speeding motors and flying engines i can take my seat and watch the desert fade lost behind my slipstream its heat melding with the blast from my turbines until green and blue come into sight boats and mountains with snow and cities with lakes and forests and i'm motoring home twisting blacktop under my tires under the tall shading pines the smell of wet earth on the wind. Current Mood: satisfiedCurrent Music: the doors - in concert | | Friday, June 23rd, 2006 | | 7:05 am |
friday morning
friday morning driving past the empty bowling alley and fishing boats soaking up the rising sun still cold from the morning's unexpected chill jazz piano and smoky voice on the stereo and even as i marvel at this summer morning with its snow-capped mountains and wide stretches of water i am still in bed under the sheets stomach full of pancakes and peanut butter pressing my body against yours gently and firmly holding your sunburnt skin teaching you about yourself and learning about me and us and this and hungry for more pancakes. | | Sunday, June 18th, 2006 | | 7:25 pm |
so says jack
my favorite haiku by jack kerouac: don't use the telephone. people are never ready to answer it. use poetry. | | Friday, June 16th, 2006 | | 11:37 pm |
kiss first
And so here I am again here I am again with pen in hand here I am again hestitating failing to take this opportunity this possibility to act to reach out to this amazing creature this fascinating person and through one simple act touch flesh to flesh and mouth to mouth and see and feel and taste a hint of just what draws me to her And yet this this missed first kiss this feeling of hesitation this procrastination I've done it before and I'll do it again and again and again and each time each missed set of lips (though maybe they'll soon be kissed) I regret not having done this as I walk down the block or she closes the car door and I ask myself why must I wait to judge "the right time" or "when the mood is right" to take that first kiss to slide off her pants to say what I feel to ask her to dance or all of these steps these motions and moves these things that I do and the answer each time the root cause of this frustrating behavior as best I can tell is that it all means too much each action is a symbol given magical powers by my unconscious mind brainwashed by media my unconscious mind searching for meaning the ideas moving those lips the thoughts behind those fingers and yet what I need to know the thing that I should learn is to kiss first and ask questions later. |
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aggravated