The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review
littlereview

Poem for Thursday


Cement Guitar
By Michael Carlson


All morning I've remembered St. Ignacio's bruise,
jaundiced seagulls over Quonset, November
and the gross white sky. Days so long
you walk home fifteen miles from the restaurant.
Same waitress every day of your life
and she never remembers your allergies.
Nothing on the map but scone crumbs
and a drop of tea. Just manifold food and a dead request
to bury the last of your seven receipts.

Mother of foster-wit, father of straw,
I can see how silence takes the place of those
who cut their thoughts in stone before they need them.
Stone is the past, and the past is a form of flattery.
Last winter, groups of children sent letters
in sadness for the late Christmas suicide.
Addressed to those who managed the fishery,
who named the docks and decided the colors of unfinished boats,
the only way to read them was alive.
To think out loud about those children's names
was to forget what you meant by dying.

--------

Cranky, whining bitchiness. Am having an "I hate everyone and everything here especially myself" day so please lie low until I'm past.

1) My throat is killing me. Want winter back, or want to move someplace with no tree pollen.

2) My fucking editor has been fucking missing for four fucking days now and I am FUCKING TIRED OF HAVING THE ENTIRE SITE DUMPED ON ME LIKE THIS without so much as a "Hi borrowing friend's computer to tell you that mine has died, will be back ___ (whenever it is)" or "Hi I am dying of ___, could you find someone else to take over my duties for awhile so the entire fucking thing is not on your fucking head?"

3) Looks a lot like plagiarism to me. But I know better than to say anything; it just causes flame wars and fandom ugliness that is Just Not Worth It over something as trivial as fic.

4) Person A: You IM me constantly, but I'm not even on your Friends list here and you have no apparent interest in anything I have to say beyond telling you things I love about your fic. But why should I read and gush over your fic when the only times I know whether you're reading mine is when you're finding nitpicks to slam? And why should I spend so much time conversing with you when you have absolutely no interest in me as a person, a writer or anything else?

5) Person B: You're obviously still ignoring my posts and my comments which leads me to believe that you're not reading my journal and deliberately not replying to anything I say in yours...and, you know, damned if I am going to write to you and find out why, at this point. I'm taking you off my default friends list because, you know, you really are not god's gift to fandom and I thought you were rather full of yourself even when your corner was the only corner I wanted to play in. When/if you have something to say to me, you can say it...and if you never do, I don't have time or energy to stress over it.

6) Why, of course your schedule is more important than my schedule. You have a Real Job, whereas I have only 2) above. Feel free to make me work around you.

7) Why do certain people expect me to cheerlead for them when they can't even be bothered to speak to me half the time?

And this is really trivial and petty but while I'm on a roll:

8) It's DRABBLE, not dribble. Dribble makes me think of incontinence and spit leaking out the side of someone's mouth, neither of which is terribly enticing. Unless you want me to take nothing about your 100 words seriously, please get the label right.

This morning I was awoken by my husband and son having a big fight about a baseball bat, and the day has only been more of the same sort of thing since.

I didn't read much flist; wasn't in the mood after some of the shit I ran into early on. Sorry if I missed anyone's latest opus or anything. I can't do the desktop meme, I have a pic up that I've sworn not to show anyone (it's not dirty or anything, just by a fan artist who doesn't want her work passed around without permission). I have no bunnies for wednesday100 and am in a "dribbles, I mean drabbles, are for shit anyway" mood. Will see everyone later when hopefully the rain will have washed out the pollen and seeing people will have put me in a better mood.

ETA: Oh. Ehrm. Speaking of drabbles for shit, I wrote one very, very late last night for mandc100: "Preserved". Like I said, for shit, but I felt I owed Killick a dribble of his very own.
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