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.
No comments:
Post a Comment