August Kills With Wandering Thoughts

The sun through Rachel's doorway, the heat.
The stairs that live here, the plants either side the stairs.
The days of half-open curtains, thankful for sun, praying for shade.
This almost became a piece about photosynthesis,
almost became a poem about homes away from home,
a poem about the inertia of comfort, like 9 years old,
notching yourself into the corner between arm-rung
and seat on a merri-go-round, feeling the spin
paste you to your spot as you watch the swings become a blur,
but the keyboard on top of the amp, sitting by the door,
the growing pile of my own books, the knowledge of coming rain,
the good nights with bad tv shows, beamed directly here,
this almost became a poem about a relationship, gorgeous
with stir fry breakfasts, adventures to suburbs and accommodations,
but poems about relationships without the benefit of hindsight
or confirmation of jewelry. . . well, there is iced coffee coming
and this weather makes hard thinking into exhaustion.

Interesting turns of phrase and corners

If it had been as sunny a few hours ago on my (short) walk home from church as it is now, with me curled with reading and writing material and just happy to let my windows become magnifying glasses and myself the ant, well, I probably would still be on a long walk.

but. God or the Weather or Caleb the Cloud Formation didn't see it fit, so here I am.

interesting turns: Matt, Jen and Courtney's friend has been in from NC. Every time he says "Chapell Hill" I want to mention Archers of Loaf, but I don't. We do talk about old cartoons and comics. His presence has facilitated a lot more out-on-the-town in one week than I usually, but maybe we made up for it by everyone piling in Jen's room all day watching disney movies.

amidst which a somewhat sudden but quite consistent flirtation with one Susie Wild (actual name) that I suppose started in earnest last friday at an art show/gig in the back of skate-clothes store. so far it's real vague and if I have the situation pegged right, is likely to remain that way. which is fine; count me intrigued but not worried. interesting people are interesting and that's welcome.
plus, she's one of those folks who seems to know everyone around and one of the guys who runs the Elysium Gallery wants me to send him some poems to print in their general-arts newsletter (a mix of news and, yeah, art.) the introduction went something like: "this is John. He's a great artist. This is Graham. He's a great poet. You guys should get along."

of course, these are also the sorts of conversations artists have late at night over belle and sebastian and johnny cash, cheap tequila and expensive cider. grains of salt are often in order

coming together in relative ways

It's the first sunny morning in over a month. I'm in my pajamas catching up on the day's internet, listening to one of my favorite albums of all time. The day is completely free of scheduled events, but I have things I can get done, and will. Tuesday I was walking downtown in the rain when Thom from Framework Social caught up with me. . . "Graham. . . the poet, right?" So I've got a gig in February. Tommorrow I'm going to Cardiff and the oldest independent record store in the world. Last night Courtney and I talked about God. Wood and I talked about Julian Cope. Yesterday I made up a CV. I'm awake, refreshed and anticipatory. Not a lot of days start like this and I think it's worth noting.

Here's to looking ahead, unironically.