It's Snow Awful...but it's not the snow.

Last night I went to bed super early, since I have been burning my end with two candles for the past couple/few weeks. Very little of that time has been spent actually doing productive things, though. A little extra time making a blanket here, more time watching anime on the dvr there. Homework? When I absolutely must, but really no sooner.

I woke up bright and early and decided to make coffee, which I seldom do. Six or seven inches of snow fell last night, and I figured that with the drive to school almost guaranteed to blow goats, it would be sensible to be awake for the experience.

You know, I have been making coffee for years now, and you would think that I would have it down to a science. That would be a false assumption, however. For some reason I make coffee as though I hate myself.

I lost count while doling out teaspoons of coffee into the filter, and somehow managed to make a generic espresso gel, which a cup of will doubtlessly keep me awake for the next month. Of course, I had several. There are several true and awful stories floating around my circle of friends which serve as testimony to my unwillingness to dump out even the most heinous brew, and today is no exception.

The only upshot is that I was able to fob off one large mug to the guy who plowed out my car this morning. I don't hate him, but you would think so based solely on the fact that I gave him coffee.
Maybe it's karma for something he did in a past life. If that's the case, then justice has been served. In a mug.

Growing

The time, always passing

Has left its touch

Upon our hearts.

We feel it in the

Way we tighten our lips

Turn our faces

Avert our eyes

It shows in the coldnesses

Our small and counted slights

Returned, unfailingly

In equally nonchalant ferocity.


Today, let's choose to cleanse this grime

Gently from our spirits

To remember the smooth current

Of companionship

Of camaraderie

Of friendship

And together, let us row this boat home.

Snow Days

I love mornings like this.
Mornings where the line
between
Snow and sky become hazy.
When I feel as though I am driving in
the only corridor
To reality.
Mornings where anything seems possible;
all lines, angles, potentials.
Mornings which fall around me
like your breath
And the promise of day.

Tourists

You know things had to change.
It had been time and gone,
And we both knew something left
This last time of all times.
We locked eyes and

Embarrassed, continued to roam around
As though the truth hadn’t just slapped us each
And told us that we should have listened:
To the hours as they hissed by;
In the driving, in the fuelling of the car
In the short walks and shorter kisses when
No one else could see;
To the progression of our lives, separate and disorderly.
We clung to each other far past reason,

Pretending not to notice when fingers
Clasped just a little less snugly than before
Finally slipped away completely
Not noticing the cold of aloneness
Because we were really ,all along,
Just visiting lives.

Mariner

I do not recall just when
You began again
To swim within my veins
Your fingers resumed clasping mine
During half known dreams

At what time did you and I
Start knotting into we
So cunningly the threads entwined
All, I confess, unseen.

How can we be so far apart
And yet I taste your skin
Your soul must be a mariners
Sweet without and salt within

Here we are my darling one
Again returning to this sea
Lets use this net which we've made
To forever catch eternity

Cinnamon

My mother tells me that I should take some cinnamon
and put it into my morning oatmeal.

Only a quarter teaspoon is enough,
she claims

To make my cholesterol go down.

Even though I don’t have high cholesterol
Even though there’s nothing wrong with me

I stir the cinnamon into the milk
which makes the oatmeal a tolerable temperature.

I guess this is what love tastes like.

Side Show

The worst of the roadside attractions
Was the one we found accidentally;
Where orchard workers like zombies
Stared from grayed picnic tables
As though we had fresh brains
Tucked somewhere in the car.

Walking into the apple barn was strange
An experiment in the limits of our mouths
As, upon hearing our salesmen talk fruit;
Flies drifting lazily around his reedy tones
Smirks were poorly contained
And giggles pushed on the backs of our throats.

We could have killed that creepy dog,
Which rested, a breathing cliché,
Under a rusty truck in the late summer heat.
With the adrenaline throwing dust
Behind us as we left, and, after
Looking in the back seat surreptitiously,
We ate those soft tart red apples
The whole way home.