इ ऍम nervous

black sweater eleven

Was going to be a name for a song i was going to write. It was written as a joke, and then took on something else. I started liking how it sounded. it would be my rough around the edges song.
I tried to set up a new gmail address for this blog, it wouldnt let me. I guess in retrospect, I should have started the gmail first, and then started the blog. As it is, I have no way of checking messages on here, not in an easy way. Not that I get any.
But black sweater eleven.

She scared my heart black sweater eleven.
I wandered father that I ever had
We skipped the fates black sweater eleven,
more and more, more and more.

I am either sick with a cold or have a really bad alergic reaction to my parents house.
I am also noticing that there is nto spell check line under by badly spelled words. I need to change that.
I have some money for books in the forms of gift certificates. I was originally thinking of getting history biographies: possibly war related, maybe a president bio.
But, not I am already starting to lean a little away from that. Possible more towards new fiction?
I don't know. i will attempt patience on this one seeing as how the first year I got a gift certificate, I bought a horrible cookbook, a book written in german, and a fake porno.
dont ask.
We crammed earthly delights into our lungs black sweater eleven.
Red wine and sights set on happy springs, when the small town starts warming up and drying off.
How come you run black sweater eleven.?

Labels will be used for the first time in this post.

we just

We just sat on the floor and laughed.
I made her laugh. I won.
It didn't take much tonight. I fed her a beer, but I didn't even need to.
She me made me laugh too.
What the hell are we doing?
"What the fuck are we doing?" I managed to spit out before falling over laughing.
I sat her up again, wrapping her in pillows.
I took four steps back, with my body lowered.
"ok, are you ready?"
"Yea," I couldn't believe she was game.
I charged with my shoulder lowered into the big round pillow, knocking her into the bed.
Rolling over.
She spilled a full 2X4 can of budweiser on my bed once. That was a hoot. The mind takes a while to figure out what the fuck is happening:
"Wow, the amber liquid is flowing onto my comforter. My mom bought me this silly looking blanket to replace the one she bought me ten years ago. I loved that one. The smell of it reminded me of childhood. Sweaty years where it was more fun not to bathe and deal with that for a while:
"Dude, take a shower," my brother said.
"Huh?"
I was wearing baggy pants then, it was the 1990s, it was what you were supposed to do I guess? Or i just followed. Too young to try to make decisions yet, I will someday.
I need to pick this beer can up off my bed, but is this really happening.
Jumping up in the air, quick, grabbing the beer, gathering the blanket.
Two children lost on a bed with out covers. Running around "CODE BLUE!" gathering old towels off the floor. The gross floor, the cheap college floor.
***
"What if I tried my hand at poetry?"
"What if you made a turn?" She said, gesturing to the scrabble board. Oh yea, its my move...
I lean forward with the wine nod, red lips, messy hair, jazz record in the background....
"Do you need help? You know, you can skip a turn."
That is my line, she is feeding me my fucking line here.
i remember seeing green grass colored blue. It was an effect. A photographic effect, but I don't know from where, or why. It just was.
Variations of lips gloss.
going to music school, figuring out chords, playing piano in the practice rooms. trying to sing.
trying to sing silly songs and trying to sing serious songs. I have only done that one time in graduate school, I did it a thousand in undergrad. Am I too old to play guitar and sing?
Maybe not enough time?

organization

I need to organize the way I few this blog. Right now it is set up through an email address@gmail.com
So, for example, it looks like this:
Bobcat@msu.edu@gmail.com


Can you imagine dealing with this on a Wednesday? it is horrible. What is not horrible is the gray sky outside. Cold, wheeling.
I would like to say that today I wrote a song on the guitar,
or,
That I meditated while playing the guitar.
None of these things happened.
Instead I drank some coffee, and contemplated running in the snow. How you would have to have the right outfit, and the right frame of mind.
I ran two miles yesterday and it felt like 4. It was supposed to rain, it was supposed to be cold.
No, it was warm and humid.
I will leave you with:

Fridays are always the best. Once out of your daily routine, you find a tasty beverage waiting for you, a song, a gift.

mr. running how you doing?

I am currently obsessed with running clothes. Not that I really own a lot of them, but I just saw a little commercial on my computer here at work, and I want those clothes. I need that don't I? New running stuff? I tried very hard to come up with another poem similar in style and context to the one I wrote yesterday, and it proved impossible. So, I am won't force it.
Today I woke up around 9:30 and did some sweeping. I drank some coffee, and I read more of Tree of Smoke.
This novel is good, but because of the way this semester has played out, I have taken breaks from it. At first I would be flipping backwards through it trying to figure out where I have seen a particular character before. Now halfway through it I don't have to do that anymore. It is now 1968, and the Tet Offensive is pretty much underway. Johnson leaves few details of the horror of this campaign behind, with scenes of confused Marines doing horrible things to captured Vietnamese while trying to understand why every thing is shit.
I checked out a book yesterday, having not even finished this one yet. Stupid idea. I had been doing better, as far as laying a current book down, staring at a wall, and saying, "Listen man, how can you read this? You know what you should really read? Remember how you said you were going to read...." On and on. Its horrible. So, now I have a book siting in the corner staring at me.
I will finish tree of smoke first.

forward backward

This is my second or third attempt at a"blog" as it is.  The first two had horrendous names.  I don't know, is this one any better?  I feels catchier?  My 5 year old nephew came up with it.  After I kicked his ass in Madden.  I wrote a poem highly influenced by Gary Snyder:

Centered Around What?

We took the ten plus year old truck around University Lake last night

trying to get a better view of Jupiter and Venus hugging within a 

finger's touch of the moon.

Between us we had just enough hopes and dreams to keep the cold night out.

White egrets circled their nest trees under the new moon,

squawking and making noises like old men playing bridge.

Great blue herons were just visible,

only because I had seen them earlier from my bicycle, and knew the

preferred the high branches of Cyprus trees

"We could make a fire when we get home," I said, resting my hand on her knee.

She just smiled at me, her funny laugh love smile.

"We could paint our faces?"

This got no reaction, she was more into the cold nite air than my silly jokes.

We drove home through black skies and grey clouds, counting our lucky hearts

that we had finally found a part of December that wasn't shit and piss.