It'll take a couple days to get how I want it to look, but

grahamisaac.com now exists.

Lets say

. . . by the end of january, the retrospective. because so far, 2013 has felt like loose ends of 2012, even more than usual, what with burying Bana and the attendant services, emotions, and deliberate squelchings thereof.
I got up at five a.m. today to see Brielle back off to Chicago and then visited Greg in the hospital, and now am off work and about to meet Aaron to plan Greenwood without Greg. Its all a lot, and I also have lots of personal/financial errands to do, and I am feeling like a rag doll all over.

This too shall pass, I'm all too aware, but the amount of minutes I've had for blogging have often been taken up with staring at walls or fb scrolling just for the sake of it.

2012, the prosing.

In a few days, or weeks, or a month, there'll be some sort of bloglike retrospective of 2012. For now, enjoy this preview of a comp on which 2012, the poem, recorded at Da'daedal in November at Vermillion.

January 8th, half finished, in eight lines.

you will live and die in front of a computer, by choice or pay.
time spent summoning the angels will outlast the help they give.

mongolian names are harder than ethiopian, welsh, or chinese.
working girls/smirking churls/lurking hurls.

the habit of putting off hard decisions just long enough for someone else to make them.
have a good time at the funeral; you know what I mean.

you will live and die and this mist will feel the same either way.
you know what I mean. obviously, I'm being dramatic.

Craft and Inspiration

My fingers are splitting open,
oiled and pasted and drugged
and re-taped, my fingers
are seaming apart, bits of lemon
juice traveling into and under
skin that refuses itself.

At the table I read a new novel,
and think about sex. The novel
is not about sex, but sex, or something,
is inescapable these days with all these
pictures everywhere, all the reminders
everyone having these legs and torsos.

I have had sex everyday this year
but haven't written a thing.*
the walls are huge and blank
except the parts with pastel flowers
and warping and splitting,
like my fingers or the back of my neck
that she massages together every night

when two officers of the law, booted
and uniformed walk in and stroll about
the cafe. another one enters and I read
and read and read and don't look at
them or think about anything except
for craft and professionalism and
inspiration. definitely not about

unraveling, unfunctioning, jittering apart
or the fourth and fifth officers, two female,**
three male, all white except one guy
who looks hispanic, scratching their chins
and making crisp talk with the girl at the
counter whose lip rings avoid suspicion
because she is employed. In this moment

I'm glad to be reading, not writing,
because that is still less suspicious
and my hands are really starting to shake
and the novel is pretty good,
so far.

*not complaining. or bragging. 
**when approached by a female police officer, it is an excellent idea to consistently mention her gender when addressing her directly. If she is at all attractive-- and they often are-- be sure to mention that, too. They love that and will probably let you off with a warning. Also, if you've ever seen a movie with a ladycop, bring that up, possibly ask if she starred in it. There is no way that could go wrong, like joking about the handcuffs.

The next Claustrophobia

. . . happens shortly after christmas. check Bem's filmmaking prowess and my poetic-improvisational chops as well in the promo video below.

At the End of a Quarter, Everything Goes Slow

There is nearly nothing to say about the last day at the loft. I rarely get not-working guilt-feels, but today I turned in my time sheet an hour short because of how little actual work I've done. To the future.