Oh My Gosh

This song is arresting.
I was following the pack
all swallowed in their coats
with scarves of red tied ’round their throats
to keep their little heads
from fallin’ in the snow
And I turned ’round and there you go
And, Michael, you would fall
and turn the white snow red as strawberries
in the summertime

Original by Fleet Foxes. Any way you hear it, holy cow:"Everything is transitory. Still, every thing is."

A Bench & So Much More

Craigslist Poetry - Missed Connections

You were crying in front of Keybank Tower - m4w (downtown)
You were over by the bikes (rather than in front of Spicy Pickle). I was wearing a blue, buttoned short sleeve shirt and carrying a book. I doubt you'll see this, but if somehow you do, I want another chance to ask if you're OK. Include your hair color and the color of the shirt you were wearing so I'll know it was you.

Cute guy with a 2:00 haircut appointment - w4m (Roberts of Portland)
I was sitting in the front when you walked in. You looked like the type of guy with a great job, a house, a dog, a wife and a kid on the way.... but maybe there's a chance you're single? I doubt you check these but figure it might be worth a chance. Anyway.... I was the petite blonde in the yellow flowered dress.

New Seasons Market - m4m - 28 (Scholls Ferry)
at 2:30ish you were outside reading a book. We sort of made eye contact a couple times. Please be gay, please be gay, please be gay. Or at least bi. Hit me up if I looked "doable".

I farted on the max - w4m - 26 (At The back....)
It was packed.... It really stunk... You where the nice looking guy standing next to me that everyone looked at...... Our eyes met..... You knew it was me and didnt say anything......
What a guy...... Id love to meet you... It dosnt happen very often..... please email me.....

-Blondie

Coffee Shop - w4m - 28 (Portland)
To the guy who I'm sitting behind right now at my local coffee shop (NON-starbucks). Damn you are great to look at from behind. Thank you! :)

If You Wanna Make the Blog

...write me a poem. Dan caught wind of the grouch in me today and sent me two things: a YouTubed man playing a flute made of broccoli. Hm. And this fabulous poem.

Pema, Pema, oh so fair
Is in a mood, you'd best beware
So watch your tone
Or you're on your own
When she swings you 'round by the hair

Don't babble on while on the phone
Like some poor freak on methadone
She'll send you flying in the air
And where you land? She just don't care
Long as she can't hear you bitch and moan

So keep it calm and keep it cool
And make this guide your golden rule
Treat Pema kind and Pema sweet
Or on your demise we do compete
In the latest office pool

Goes straight to my heart. And cools the heels of my hellfire. Thanks, Dan.

Not Poetry

The word "bisexual" is not poetic. It'd be like trying to fit the word "refrigerator" into a poem.

It's not a poetic way to describe a life. Like any label or title or job position I suppose, the name is not so poetic.

The life it leads to is.


12.30.98 journal entry
if memory serves, i was just months into dating men again after a several year hiatus.