snowfall between the bars

breath through ruffled skirts escapes me
like contentment the earth whispers bedded in snowfall.

people, this cavalcade, a parade of kids with flags, calendars marked with names
of friends, blankets, winter coats, cashmere, wooing me to sleep.

all is right now.

a life intermittently examined and enjoyed is worth living.

and life as it is once we find our diseases are permanent and benign

For those who find their concern overwhelming: i'm not dead.

Even better, the drugs I'm taking have far more side effects than the disease. so i'm going to figure out how to wean myself off of them. I'll take temporary facial paralysis over constant insomnia, obesity, moodiness, high blood pressure, possible diabetes, weakened bones (read: yes men can get osteoporosis), decrease in my body's ability to produce steriods and hormones, and a weakened immune system. A major warning on the MayoClinic was, "Don't take this if you have a virus or infection." Yes I have a virus. Which is why I'm on anti-viral drugs. So while the drugs go on fighting each other, I still can't smile or close my eye.

I'm not bitter. It's the steroids. They make me moody.

Your love and concern have made me feel the richest of all men. If I really were dying, it'd be an honor to have each of you present at my cremation and sprinkling. For the record, said sprinkling should be on a certain secret beach, where last days are suns setting.

In other news: to end the contest for best pet, which has been between dogs and cats, I nominate the new best pet in the world: electrons. Tricky little buggers they are, and so poetic.

Speaking of which, poetry's grandeur astonishes me by the lack of detail it conveys with such succinctness. I mean that in a good way. I appreciate the way it doesn't propose to have any data for the unexplainable, instead leaves it out in lieu of foolishness. I started 6 poems today. That was a release. Not yet. You can see them later. They're still half-dressed.

Rilo Kiley, Johanna Kunin, Bonnie Prince Billy, George Winston.

It's 3am and less than 0.

hypochondria

i think something's wrong.

i have a constant headache. my skin is ultra sensitive. my upper lip won't close, on one side. i can't close my right eye without my left closing as well, and the right eye doesn't close when i blink. the tip of my left ring finger has been numb for over 24 hours. my eyes hurt.

i don't trust doctors though. the last one tapped my lungs, prescribed me drugs and sent me home. two weeks later, i'm still coughing doc.

bad timing really. but aren't all illnesses inconvenient?

I fell in love tonight

with these:

• George Winston's version of Pachelbel's Kanon in D
• Ordinary People, a 1980 film by Robert Redford
• Pablo Neruda, especially his poem, "I'm explaining a few things"
• My family's house, finally a home.
• Friends who smile, haunt, hug, humble, reflect, champion, commission, cheer and snuggle me with their lives
• The aural properties of the Charlotte's Web soundtrack
• The steps I take which, tracks across a page, appear, in hindsight, poetry.

You, probably.

I'm excited for the next two days of drinking fine beer and discussing and reconnecting.
For the Jan-term I've anticipated for two years
For the lofty visions and folly of our own optimism
For a year without resolutions, yet a year of resolution

My future is vague and unsafe, like emotion and poetry. That makes sense. Poems confuse me at first, until my heart beats quicker and my mouth opens, and my body language tells me that I understand something my mind cannot. The vagueness is like that. I have one confidence: I am getting closer. The hair on my arms is standing on tiptoe, to see what impends.

Here's to 2007 and a bit of aesthetics mixed with our practicality. Cheers!