It's going to be a big week. On Tuesday, I tape an episode of a local news show where I find out if I am the next Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula. Frankly, I don't think that I'm going to win. Up against an old friend and classmate. I would be happy if she won. She's a fantastic poet.
Tonight's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago, as I was preparing for Valentine's Day.
February 14, 2014: Fudge and Bed
I am pretty tired tonight. I'm sitting on my couch, watching the Olympics. Skiing. Skating. Snowboarding. I'm drifting in and out of consciousness. My sister bought me some Mackinac Island Fudge today, so I'm also snacking on really good chocolate, too.
Pretty soon, I'm going to be stumbling off to bed. After the Russian ice skaters. I'm going to try to see the women's snowboard competition, too. Don't know if I'll be able to stay awake. I may just have to Google the results before I brush my teeth.
Not much going on tomorrow for me. A slow day at the medical office. Pulp Fiction in my film class. A couple of hours in my office in the evening, waiting for my daughter to get done with her dance classes. I'll have plenty of time to read and write.
Saint Marty's got a little Valentine's Day project to complete.
I do have a poem for you guys this evening. Something I wrote a few years ago:
On Your Good News
by: Martin Achatz
I once stood on a beach covered
With elephant seals from horizon
To horizon, as if the Pacific
Just had enough of their barks,
Their breath of rancid eel and squid,
Their eclipse of blubber and proboscis,
Coughed them up on the sand
The way my sister coughed phlegm
Into a basin in the hospital
After the surgeon removed her gall bladder.
I once watched a deer the color of marble
Cross my street in a blizzard, each step
A ballet of hoof and wind and hunger.
I once sat mute in a room with Vonnegut,
Unable to ask about Billy Pilgrim
Or Dresden, just watched him,
Stooped and bored and old, be a god.
I once ate an ant on a bet, jumped
Into Lake Superior in January.
I once saw the World Trade Centers
Against a full moon, nine months before
Ash and grief and Ground Zero.
I once followed a monarch in a field
Of goldenrod and Queen Anne's lace,
Stalked stained glass
In August thrum and heat.
And now I've heard you
Tell me your good news. Egg. Sperm.
Collision. Life. I listened, gave thanks
For your voice, full of grasshopper
Wing and leg, the hunger to consume
This new love with cumin or curry.
Or maybe something sweeter,
Like the honey I once sucked
From a comb under a halo of bees.