Robbed

I planned on staying at my mom's tonight because she watched my son while I worked. I took my new computer, and all my schoolwork to her house before I went to work. And thank god I did. I stopped by my apartment to pick up a few movies for my son...and when I got there, my apartment had been broken into. They took my old computer, which I had given to my son. That was "Lucien's puter." They also took some checks, and my back up drive for the old computer that had all my writing on it, as well as a few pieces of jewelry...and a Ribeye. Yep, they took a fucking steak out of my freezer.

I am so thankful the new computer was not there. But, I am sick about my son's computer. It is going to break my heart when he asks about it. Although it was old and slow, he loved it. We both did our "work" together. I feel like I am going to throw up.

What Did You Think of the Article I Posted Earlier?

Did you guys like that article?

Honestly, I thought it was pretty good. The "editor" of the magazine, told me...and I quote, that it "sucked." She even said it was a bomb, and that she has another writer also doing a music article...and our articles will be competing for publication in the first issue. Also, and I quote... "if both of us write a terrible article, then I (the "editor") will just write it myself." Now, I agree with the point that the focus should be more on the music. I also had a 300 word limit. Oh, and did I mention less than 48 hours to write 4 articles that all included some kind of research (going to places, calling people, an interview, and information gathering on the Internet.) I would have agreed with the point that it was not focused, or the angle was wrong, but I will not agree that this piece "sucked." Now...maybe I am just not taking criticism well...I think I take it pretty well, actually. She started the spiel of her feedback with these words..."This one really sucked," Then, the only real problem she said she found with it, was that it talked about the bar instead of the music...okay, easy fix...but, that does not mean it sucked. I feel like I know enough about good journalism to know the piece did not suck. I will also agree that even my Journalistic efforts step out of the box a little, and sometimes that is not good with certain publications. I just feel it was very unprofessional. She really had very little comments about the other three articles. This, among other things, has left me questioning if this internship is right for me. I am worried. And I am disappointed. It feels so disheartening.

My mom, on the other hand is livid.

An Article About A Local Music Club

DOWN AND DIRTY AT SNUG HARBOR

“Vibrant Music and Personality Rock Out in Plaza-Midwood.”

On the corner of Gordon Street, almost where Pecan meets Central, music rocks the cinder block walls of Snug Harbor. Whether it is a slow night where local characters inhabit the bar stools or a busy night where a punk band shakes the walls with it fury and emotion, this is a place like no other in Charlotte. Outside the windows are adorned with black chains that contrast with the white cinder blocks of the square building that looks like a quiet warehouse in the daylight.

Inside, the old building comes to life, with both its customers and décor. Pirates and skeletons beckon from their perches near the ceiling, smiling down on customers from their ships embossed with copper. Pirate flags, and pirate lamps, and even a painting that looks like pirate pinup girls let patrons know that this place is a buried treasure. The bar is a smooth, dark wood stained so that the grains in the wood stand out, black and fierce. Behind the bar, three tall shelves adorned with various liquor ranging in flavor, casting shadows across the landscapes of both common and exotic. Mirrors stand tall between the shelves, giving the aura of a sacred altar.

The stage hovers in the corner opposite the bar, with a wood sound booth, inlaid with red leather. Long, silver and red sparkling strings of super shiny tinsel hang from the walls of the stage, making the dim, yellow lights illuminate the bar. A black stage juts out with large speakers to withstand the terminal velocity of guitar driven angst and melody. The grey and black mottled concrete floor accepts both dancing feet and spilled beers.

Snug Harbor has live bands most nights of the week, booking acts ranging from growling punk to guitar driven folky ballads, all thriving with emotion and pleasure. The beer selection spans the range of domestics, micro brewed, and imported. There is even a display of regional beers. Snug Harbor is a place that anyone can be him or herself, and the music and atmosphere skate on the border of gritty and refined.

Internship

This has been the busiest week of my life, I think.

I am now an intern at a new magazine here in Charlotte. It is going to be free magazine, that is funded through ads. I will be writing the food, wine, and music columns. It is an unpaid internship for twelve weeks, and then she hopes to hire a few writers. I am not exited about that part, but I need the experience to get a writing job. I am excited about it.

The interview process was much easier than I anticipated. I have interviewed for many jobs in the restaurant and bar industry, but that is about it. In the service industry, it matters so much what you look like, and where you have worked. What was really nice about an interview for a writing is that my portfolio stands on its own now. My writing speaks for itself, and I have a pretty solid portfolio, with various excellent work. It did not matter if I was dressed in a jacket and pants or a suit or skirt, or if I was a little chunky, or that I had big bottomed black boots on...my writing says enough. That was a good feeling. Now, I am sure if I had gone in there in tattered clothes, my writing may not have gotten me the job. But, it was nice not to stress out about those minor details this time.

The editor actually called me last night at 10pm. She gave me the final go on 3 articles, and then she said she wanted them by 630pm on Thursday!!! First draft, anyway. Wow, that is a short deadline! I hope they are not all like that. She assured me they are not. So, it is off to research these things, and get writing.

Rambling Thoughts About An Old Friend Still Serving Time

Writing this last post, my mind wandered back to a time so far away and long ago. I thought about that little one bedroom apartment in Virginia. My mind drifted back, looking at the places, and the faces of several friends...

And I thought about Sammy. He was this guy I used to get drugs from. Coke, heroin, pills, weed...whatever. He was the man in a small town. And eventually, he got busted. That is always the case when you get too big, and when you are really careless...you get fucking busted. He was sentenced to five to seven, I think. Later, some other accusations came up that were more serious than drugs and guns...so he could have ended up with more time. I left way before I found out any details.

But, I was thinking about how different the world is going to be when he comes out of jail...even, only five years later. He went to jail before the use of Facebook. He went to jail before the era of smartphones, and he always had just a regular cell phone. He went to jail in a prosperous economy, without the widespread use of GPS and social media. He went to jail before satellite radio was in most cars, and when televisions were not all flat. He went to jail when you could still get basic television by merely plugging an old tv into the wall. He went to jail when most news was still read in a newspaper, and no one looked to the Internet for news. He went into jail when most of his friends were drug addicts, and now many of them have grown up (or recovered) and moved on with their lives. I think about how different the world will seem to him when he gets out....

Ramblings about Intervention...

Watching several episodes, back to back, of "Intervention" tonight. Sometimes, I feel such a powerful message when I watch these shows. Other times, not so much. And generally, the message I hear has more to do with my personal connection to the subject matter. I am rambling, let me explain...

The first one I saw tonight was a mother in her early 50s who had been addicted to crack for thirty years. Her kids had suffered greatly, and they were very angry. The only man in the whole thing was the addicts 17 year old son....which I relate to as a single mother from a family of strong women. The addict's mother was a real jewel who was from the old school where you respect your elders and you take care of your responsibilities and you love your and support your family no matter what. She spoke like an old school preacher, with a cadence and rhythm in every word she spoke. She was wise in many ways, but her loyalty as a mother caused her to be quite an enabler. This mother was amazing, though. The power came with all three generations together, and the picture of motherhood. The mother of the addict, loyal and supportive to the point it was harmful, and three angry children who felt like they never had a mother as their mother abandoned them again and again in so many ways...the grandmother was the mother to these kids. During the pre-intervention, the grandmother realized how bad these kids were being hurt by their mother's addiction (that she was enabling), and suddenly it all made sense to the wise, old woman. Addiction, raking over the lives of three generations...taking mothers and daughters alike. Such a powerful idea of motherhood, with these two polar opposites, fighting for the same lives...one who never stops mothering even though her daughter is an addict, and the other who has never started mothering even though she has three grown kids. I see these kids hurting from their mother's addiction, and it makes me thankful that I walked that road way before my son was ever conceived. I know how easy it can be to fall in that whirlwinding downfall without even realizing it...and I am so thankful to be fully aware of where this road will lead. Every damn time. At least that is how it is for me. Believe me, I tried. I tried to beat the odds. Many times. I thought I could do it, time and time again...just use recreationally...and it just cannot be done, by me, anyway. Yeah, at first, I always thought I could do it, after all...I knew all the tricks. But, eventually the weeks waned to days which waned to hours and pretty soon I had a fucking habit again. I know I can never put my son through that. I cannot put myself through that again...just too much at stake.

Powerful Celebrity Rehab

Just watched an incredibly powerful "Celebrity Rehab." I have to say, i am not even sure who the celebrity was. She looked like a model...tall and pretty. I just caught the end of the episode, and I do not know if it was new, or a rerun. But, tears streamed down my face.

Dr. Drew was with this tall, pretty patient in new York City. When I tuned in, they were standing at Ground Zero, and she talked about losing her fiance on 9/11. She said she felt like no one can understand what that feels like, and then a man interrupts and talks to her because he lost his wife and niece that day. This man was married to his wife for 40 something years (47 maybe?). He talked about that morning, and I was so touched. Dr. Drew was so touched, and this patient in treatment was also touched. He said exactly what she needed to hear, just by sharing his experience with her. (That is one thing that is powerful about this blogging community, as well.) Then, she went down towards The boathouse, (maybe at Central Park?) where the addict's fiance, whom she lost on 9/11, proposed to her. She had a letter she had written him shortly after he died, that she intended to leave in his coffin, but she just could not. She looked for a place to "let it go." As the walked by a river in this park, she sees a copper plaque on the ground that reads, "For Andy (that was her fiance's name) whom I loved...." I cannot remember the exact wording. She tells Dr. Drew that she now realizes that maybe he was only supposed to be with her for that short time, and that everything happens for a reason. (Hence...higher power things here, recovery realizations here...) She goes alone to the banks of this river, and reads the letter she has not even been able to read since she wrote it ten years ago. She rolls it up, and puts it in a bottle, releasing it to the water. Powerful.

And it really strikes home with me because of Katrina. All the people that we lost during the storm, all the people we lost during 9/11...all the families of all those people, and I wonder how many of the survivors struggle with addiction. It is a way to cope. These massive, horrible tragedies are etched forever in our minds...even in the minds of people who really have no personal connection to the places, or events, people whose only connection to these events is the fact they are American...and it happened her...the events of the Hurricane, and the events of 9/11, and the events of Columbine,the Arizona tragedy, Virginia Tech, the earthquake in Haiti, the tsunami in the Far East...I could go on and on...all those people have family, and all this tragedy...it takes a toll. I know it took a toll on me for quite some time. I think about substance abuse because of trauma. It happens. A lot. I cannot really claim that because I was an addict before the tragedies I experienced in Katrina...but, I am no longer an addict, and that has much to do with Katrina. Events like these are so powerful.

Letter to Merl Hamilton, In Regards to His Daughter Valarie Hamilton

Police chief talks about Valerie Hamilton; 'decisions matter' - CharlotteObserver.com

I would like the parents out there to read this article. And I would like to say a word to the police chief...

Dear Merl Hamilton,

Although I do not believe that Harvey is responsible for "murder", I am not here to talk about that. Let me start by telling you that I am a recovered heroin addict. I have been clean for almost five years, so I look at your situation from two sets of eyes. I write a lot about my addiction, in hopes to help someone else out there. I have a blog that I started to get some of my stories from my memoir written. I want to share my experiences with the world, in hopes that my message will give someone out there hope. At first,I thought my blog might be read by other addicts...and that is true. But, I did not realize that parents of addicts would also be drawn to my blog. After blogging for almost a year, I have come in contact with many parents who have children struggling with drugs and alcohol.

This has been the most satisfying part of my blog. I am helping people with addiction, but I never anticipated it would be the parents of addicts that I really feel like I am helping. It helps parents to understand what it is like to be an addict, and it gives them hope to look at me today...and read the perspective of a recovered addict. I have written many pieces on my blog concerning my parents. I feel like I hurt my parents most with my addiction, and I missed out on a lot of years I could have spent with family...precious time. I am lucky enough to still be alive and get a chance to make it up to them. Some of us are not that lucky.

Anyway, this post was sparked by the criticism you have received for parenting a child involved with drugs. Heroin has such a serious stigma, and using a needle will be looked badly upon anywhere. If someone was involved in this IN ANY WAY, she was not new to using. I am not saying your daughter was an addict because I do not know that much about her. I am saying that you may have a lot in common with these parents of my blog, and with my parents...as I am fairly sure you know a little something about having a child with a substance abuse problem.

I want to respond to the person who said, "Way to go. Good father you are." A child with a substance abuse problem often has absolutely nothing to do with the parents, and whether or not they are good parents. I know that my parents are wonderful parents, and I was still a heroin addict. Chances are, there really was absolutely nothing you could have done that would have changed her choices to use. After I got clean, I read Sheff's "Beautiful Boy," and to see addiction from a parent's perspective was very enlightening. I realized that there was nothing my mother could have done to change what happened to me. I know she had all kinds of what ifs, and I realized that I went there, all on my own...and there was nothing anyone could have done to make it different.

I am sure you were a good parent. There are lots of great parents out there who have children that have succumbed to this disease of addiction. They are all good parents. There are many other parents out there who have lost their children to addiction, in one way or another...and they are all good parents. I want to express my condolences to you. As a new mother, I cannot even imagine what you are feeling, and I am not sure if I would handle the situation with such composure. This is a terrible, terrible thing that has happened. I am truly sorry for your loss.

The Onslaught of Oxycontin....

I remember when Oxycontin first came out...yes, that is how old I am, and that is how long I have been around dope. I was addicted to heroin for several years when Oxycontin first hit the market.

One of my friends left New Orleans for the weekend, traveling to a wedding somewhere relatively nearby. She called me while she was gone, leaving me a message. Her voice, slow and deliberate, and I could hear the height in her voice. She simply said, "Morphine pills, oh my god."

When she returned to New Orleans, she told this fantastical tale of these wonderful "morphine pills" she had taken when out of town. Back then, no one had heard of Oxycontin, and no one wanted to call them oxycodone, because we all associated that with percocet. And these fucking pills were way better than percocet.

These morphine pills began to emerge on the streets later that following year. Back then, there were 120mg pills that circulated. They actually made them in 120mg strength in the beginning. After a while, too many people were dying from overdose when taking these 120mg oxycontin...and the production of that strength was quickly stopped.

I did oxycontin a couple of times in those early years, but heroin was always much cheaper. In later years, I would substitute oxycontin when I did not have any dope...but again, it was just too expensive.

Oxycontin is more accepted in mainstream circles, and people who would never try HEROIN would try oxycontin. The addiction to oxycontin is the same as heroin, and the high is also the same. The problems with oxycontin became prevalent in the news in the last years of my addiction.

Old Friends and Envy

Last night I had dinner with an old friend. I was friends with him and his wife several years ago, and since I moved to North Carolina, we have remained friends. My friends had their first child three months before I had my son, and now they also have a second child. He travels a lot, and he had a night layover here, so we had dinner.

It was really nice to catch up. My life has changed so drastically since I moved to North Carolina, and we enjoyed catching up. When I lived in Virginia and met this couple, I was still a mess. I was clean, but I was still on probation, and I was still wallowing in the mire of having been lost for so long. Now, I am in such a different place. My friend was amazed and also delighted at my life.

I have always been envious of this man's wife. I always thought she had it all. He makes really good money, and they have a nice house and nice cars...and she always seemed to have everything. I looked up to her because she had everything going for her. I talk to his wife often, and we shared our pregnancies and all the baby details that are shared between first time moms. I am always envious of the pictures she posts on Facebook because I see all the nice furniture, and I realize her children have the best of everything.

Last night, her husband revealed some unhappiness in their marriage. I knew that already, but he confirmed it. And I looked around at my life, my tiny little apartment with hand me down furniture, and my job as a waitress, and my status as a single mom. And I realized how happy I am. I realized that my life is perfect.

As a single mom, I do not have to answer to anyone. I am in control. I do not have to share in every parenting decision. I do not have to make dinner for a man who works all day to support me, and I do not have to comfort anyone other than my beautiful baby boy. I love the solitude of living alone with my son. I love that he loves this little apartment, and knows he is the king of this castle. I love that I am writing again, and that my writing is really coming together. I am getting ready to graduate in May, and I am excited about embarking on this new chapter. And I am so happy with everything...exactly the way it is.

As he talked about his marital problems, I realized that my friend does not have it all. And I am no longer envious of what she has. I would not want all that because there is a price that comes with it. She is not pursuing her dreams, and she is not happy with her relationship. I would rather not have a relationship than have one that is not satisfactory. I am glad to not even have to worry about all that...that is the last thing I want in my life. I am no longer envious of my friend because I realize I have just as much as she does, if not more.

Being a single mom is not easy. And sometimes it is really frustrating. Other times it is really hard. But, it really is wonderful. It brings my son and I much closer together. We have really learned to appreciate one another. I do not have to answer to anyone (except maybe my mother, but that will always be the case...) I do not share my financial responsibility with anyone, and as a result, I do not have to debate with another parent over my parenting ideas. I have provided everything in this house, and although it may not be expensive name brand...it is mine, and no one can it away from me...I am proud of what I have. I am really happy with even the worst parts of my life. I am doing something I love, hopefully for a living soon. And my little boy is my world, and I am his...and our little world is perfect for us, just the way it is. And it feels good to know this...

Explanation of a Name

I just thought about the fact I have never really explained the significance of BMelonsLemonade.

My favorite band of all time is Blind Melon. The lead singer, Shannon Hoon, was an amazing talent that died of an overdose way too fucking young. He died in my beloved city of New Orleans, on the tour bus. His voice, oh my god...it is really amazing. He was really amazing, and the band is really underrated.

There most popular song was "No Rain," but that is not the best example of their talent. All their albums are amazing, but Soup was my favorite. And my favorite song by the band is called "Lemonade." Hence, BMelonsLemonade.

For those of you who love music...check the band out. For those of you who know addiction, listen to the lyrics on Soup...they really slammed it home for me. Lemonade refers to my beloved city of New Orleans, which is where the band recorded the album. Shannon's lyrics, and his amazing voice always bring it home to me. He was truly amazing.

A sample of his words that many of you can relate to...

"Needle,

Fetal

Like someone's pouring warm gravy all over me

This synthetic therapy

Seems to be so unappealing

But, oh, what a feeling..."

I still love this band...more than any other. And so I honor them daily as BMelonsLemonade...

A Note On Poetry...

Poetry

Long forgotten

These days

As I am immersed

In my prose

Fragmented words

Linger

On my tongue

Like the bittersweet

Taste

I once loved

Pictures

And images

Flashing in my head

Back and forth

On the caverns

Of my mind

Poetry

Slam

Poetry

Reading

Poetry

Lyrical

Beauty

Poetry

Long forgotten

The words of a song

The rhythm

Of life

And lies

The music

Pulsing

And beating

Like...

The blood of my veins

I wish

To intervene

Once more

On this interlude

Of sanity

Words

And sentences

And paragraphs

All tied together

With correct

Punctuation

Free form

Words

Ideas

I need

I need

I need

To get back to my core

To the magic

Of the moment

And the basic unit

Of the word

Fuck

The sentence

And fuck

The rules

I miss

The way

The words feel

Flowing downward

On the page

Like a drop

Of blood

Like a waterfall

Like the great

Deluge

Busting from what was caged

Begging to be...

Free.

Poetry

Deep

And flowing

Like my veins

Like my mind

And not at all

Like my prose...

Abscess Chatter...

I noticed in looking at my stats lately that a lot of people have been hitting my blog by searching an abscess. People from all over this country are wondering what to do about an abscess from shooting up. And in my clean state of mind, frankly...it concerns me. This is one of the more popular posts that are randomly hit through Google, but the frequency has been much greater lately. Why is the reason for this? Are more people shooting up? Is the dope shittier, and causing more or worse infections? Or are more people searching it on the Internet? Is it the holidays that has people in a funk? Or just drunk and careless?

My advice on it is dead on, though. I will tell you that. I had more of those damn things than I care to remember. I have really tiny rolling veins, and it is really easy for me to miss. It got to be such an occurrence that the moment I missed, I took a wash cloth soaked it with hot water, and folded it over some Epsom Salt. Then I put that over the injection site, and wrapped a heating pad around it, tying it on with a scarf...then I went to sleep like that. Generally I woke up, and it was gone. Took me quite a few nasty puss filled explosions to get it down, though.

Be careful out there, people. It concerns me. Maybe I am just too old and too clean and too motherly, now.

Feeling Better...

Feeling much better this morning, driving to class with the new Cake album blaring slugging back a sugary grape energy drink and feeling like the old me once more. Is it because the weather finally broke? Or is it because the Christmas funk has finally ended? Or is it because I got a new Macbook? Could I really be that materialistic? Or is it because I finished the first read-through and edit of the book? And by the way...a few copies will be sent out very soon!

The new computer is the bomb. It is not the one I really wanted because I could not allow myself to spend over 2,000 dollars on it. I do not have that kind of money. Trust me, I tried and tried to figure out how to swing it. I was still trying to talk myself into spending that much as I walked into the computer store. But, the responsible parent in me actually won out this time. I think that this is the first time I have made such a responsible financial desision. And I am quite proud of that decision. Although, I keep thinking about the 15 inch Macbook Pro...I know that I made a responsible decision for one of the first times in my life, concerning money at least. I am proud of my decision...

I'm Just Saying...

I have been feeling depressed lately. I cannot really pinpoint what it is, just a swirl of things that seems to spinning around me. I am not usually the depressed type, so this is always uncomfortable territory for me. And whenever i mention these feelings to most people I know, they just shrug it off and assure me, it will get better. So, I do not usually mention it, anyway. Why am I mentioning it now? I don't really know.



Today has been a shitty day. I woke up at 3am with a awful shooting pain in my shoulder. I could not even lie down...I was crying and screaming. My Medicaid was cancelled because the state of NC sucks. They sent the recertification papers to my old address. Well, not my last old address...but the one before that! And believe me, I have informed those mother fuckers of both moves. By the time the letter reaches me to tell me they will be terminating my Medicaid...it is even too late to ask for a fucking hearing. So, they drop the ball, and I have to face the consequences. Mother fucking DSS. I am always getting the run around with these mother fuckers. I cannot wait to graduate and get a fucking job with insurance benefits. I do, however, have insurance at school...but I would rather not go to the campus clinic. My son wakes up at 8, and then he gets diarrhea so bad that the shit is in his hair. I cannot pick him up because of my shoulder, and the shit (literally) is everywhere. His comment is, "Poop, everywhere." Well said, baby boy. Did I mentioned I started my fucking period, too? So, I had to drag my son all over town running errands...fucking lines at DSS, paying rent(which I don't have all the money to cover the check.), and the campus health clinic. Thank god he was a good boy today. Exceptionally good. Now, I am home...and my mind and body are swimming with muscle relaxers, but my shoulder still fucking hurts. This is a recurring problem, fucking muscle spasms....



The fire in New Orleans weighs heavy on my mind. I keep thinking about those poor kids. I keep thinking about how easily it could have been one of my friends. I knew a lot of squatters, and many of my friends still travel the rails. I am sure I would have known these kids if I still lived there. My heart breaks for their families and their friends who are still trying to make sense out of the tragedy. The friendship among these "trainkids" is fierce and loyal...I know, lots of my friends are these kids. And I am really missing my friends.



I am missing New Orleans with all my heart and soul. I looked at pictures of a Christmas get together at a friends house, and I just wish I had been there. I wish I were closer to my friends, and I know a piece of my heart will always reside in New Orleans...but right now, it feels like I am So Far Away. I miss the food, and the music, and the weather, and the culture, and my friends. I feel like I just want to go home. Yet, it is not possible right now.



Why isn't this my home? My family is here...and I really am so lucky to be near them. So, why can't that be enough? I just want to go home. I just want to go back to the Crescent City because that is where I feel most at home...but New Orleans is a dangerous tempting place for me, not to mention a terrible place to raise a child. Then why do I miss it so?

Money is invading my mind, and I know the rent check will bounce. I am waiting on my refund from school, which seems like it will never arrive. I never used to care about money, bounced checks, and bills owed...I hate how this shit weighs so heavily. And my feelings are hurt that I am struggling right now. I loaned my child's father 700 bucks in September, and I have yet to see a penny of it back. But, he has paid his rent...you can be sure, and here I am...basically fucked. I lent another friend 100 bucks, and she is still living in her car, so I know she ain't gonna give me anything. As a matter of fact, she asked me for more money. It really hurts my feelings that I go out on a limb for people, and it feels like they are just using me. It is starting to piss me off.

My computer is acting like a madwoman, as my cursor floats randomly all over the screen. The mother fucking "d" does not always work, so typing can be a bitch...think about how many words have a "d." I cannot control the cursor, and I am always hitting enter...which has lead to erasing some of my words. I am ready to get my money, and get a new computer...maybe that will cheer me up.

I miss my grandfather, too. This was the first Christmas without him.

Anyway...sorry about the rant...just one of those days. One of those weeks...I hope it gets better.

Update...My bank account is now negative, about 500 bucks. But, the good news is the refund has been processed..and it is matter of days now.

Truth be told...
I guess I have been feeling a little depressed.

I miss my friends.
I feel a little lonely
As the holiday
Comes and goes.
I feel exhausted
And unmotivated
And I am a little
Cranky.

Is it the emotional
Roller coaster
From writing the book
Has left me spent?
Both emotionally
And physically.

Is it the busy, busy grind
Has come to
A temporary halt?
And I rest my mind
While I can.

Or is it that I am
Just lazy?
As I sit around,
Eating rich food
And getting fat while
I pound away
Sedentarty
At the computer.

I am joining the Y
I think exercize
Should help.
I have never
Worked out
A day in my life.
I need to try
To cook more healthy foods,
I am from New Orleans
Where EVERYTHING
Is made with butter.
The obstacles
Are mounting
The reasons
For me to say
No Way
This is too hard
Always trying
To back out
Of the diffucult,
Such has been my way...for years.

But, I gotta get off
The couch.
And I think maybe I should blog about it.

Pondering Poetry

Thinking about...POETRY
Haven't really thought about her,
In a while.
Been consumed with the words
Of my prose
The telling of my story,
Wrapped up in emotion
And language and words,
And getting the correct verbiage...
Hell, this thing is for publication!

But, thinking about POETRY
Inspired
By the poems of my brother
Thinking about
Language
Upside down
And a whole new light
Pouring out of me
Without having to think
Lines and images
Magically
Appear on the page
Thinking about metaphorical
Madness
Moonlit nights with magical
Moments mingling in our mind
Thinking about sound
In forms of onomatopoeia
Like mechanical ticks
Rat a tat tat
Chhh-chhug-chugga lug chug
Thinking about repetition
Round and round
The sounds go
Round and round
In your head,
A racetrack of sorts.
Thinking about memory
And vision
And capturing it all with words
Pictures created
From mere black and white
Lines and squiggles.

Thinking about poetry
And emotional heartfelt
Madness.
Thinking about inflection
And the reading aloud...
It all sounds different
In my head.

Thinking about poetry
In her perfect
Playful and lyrical painting
Pen and pencil,
Scribbled in perseverance,
Producing paramount pictures
Pounding through my head.
Picking up momentum
And placing her pallid hand
Softly on my pouty lips,
Persuading me to preserve this thought
In all its perverse madness
Pondering poetry...