rephrased

12:00
I didn't make it for the poetry open mic. I think I ate bad turkey at lunch, because I came home, puked my guts out, and went to sleep at 6PM. Then I woke up at 9. It's midnight now and I can't sleep. I just watched back-to-back episodes of Three's Company on Nick at Nite. What an awful show....

12:30
AAAH. Ava reminded me that I forgot poetry day. Shame on me. Here is a poem by Yuself Komunyakaa from his book "Dedications and Other Dark Horses"

"The Tongue is"
xeroxed on brain matter.
Grid-squares of words spread
like dirty oil over a lake.
The tongue even lies to itself,
gathering wildfire for songs of gibe.
Malcontented clamor, swish of reeds.
Slow, erratic, memory's loose
grain goes deep as water
in the savage green of oleander.
The tongue skips a beat, link of truth...
a chain running off a blue bicycle.
It starts like the slow knocking
in a radiator's rusty belly.
I enter my guilty plea
dry as the tongue of a beggar's
unlaced shoe. The tongue labors,
a victrola in the mad mouth-hole
of 3 A.M. sorrow.

1:15
That was so much fun I'm going to do another. This is Sharon Olds from her book "The Gold Cell"

"The Pope's Penis"
It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat-- and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God