Leave

I'm less than two weeks away from sitting on my little porch on dry land.

My contract on the cruise ship is nearly at an end, and I honestly can say I'm not the least bit sad about it. I have had nice times, on this boat. I have even had incredibly wonderful times, on board. I have made friends, laughed out loud, gotten hopelessly drunk, and felt love in my heart that is bigger than the ocean I'm on.

I have pounded iron walls in frustration, stared at stars that I have never seen before, and nodded at sunsets in thanks.

But I'm ready to come home, now. And that's just the way it is.

Some of you gentle readers have been a bit upset that, over the past four months, I haven't been posting as regularly as I used to. I'd like to apologize for this...but I won't.

Sorry, but my blog and my tiny number of readers are far too special for me to do anything like that.

The fact is, if I made a regular, disciplined habit of putting posts up on this thing, it would bore me. This would lead to me phoning it in. And I would never want to do that to any of you. I come to this place because I love to write, and I hope that you love what I've written.

This is our little tree-fort. Let's feel free to come and go as we please. There are no big kids to bother us here. I won't let them in.

That being said...in lieu of an apology I do offer an excuse for my lethargy. Take it or leave it. The choice is up to you.

There's an odd creative vacuum that seems to accompany stepping aboard a sheep ark like this ship. I can't explain it, but since October, a sinister pall has fallen over me and turned my bones to torpor. For the past four months, I've felt like I've shouting through a blanket. Maybe it's the lack of freedom. Or the inability to find a quiet corner to collect and record my thoughts. It may even be the lack of nutrition in the horrible Indian food that, as a vegetarian, I've been forced to subsist on.

It even makes me write things that I later regret. "Sinister pall"? What the fuck...I'm Edgar Allan Poe, now?

Anyway, whatever it is, I'm tired of it holding me back from writing.

So fuck it. I'm writing.

It won't be much, today. Just a random song lyric sonnet. But it's something, and for that I'm grateful.

I don't have to explain the random song lyric sonnet...do I?

Okay. I will.

I've been listening to my iTunes for that past hour or so, and recording a single lyric from every song that has randomly come up. I have written them all on tiny pieces of paper and put them in my hat. From this, I will draw 15. Fourteen lyrics will be the lines of the poem. The title of the song from the fifteenth will serve as the title of the sonnet.

This sonnet will not rhyme, and it will not be in iambic pentameter. Those are Donne's rules. Not mine.

Here we go:

Leave

Give a little bit of attitude and get a little tacky, too.
In our dreams we can live our misbehavior.
So take a recess from the hum glum.
You can keep the furniture.

Somebody's cold one is giving me chills.
It puts too many thorns into my mind.
Plastic flowers, melting sod. Fading moon falls apart.
Steam from the cup and snow on the path.

Small request: can we turn round and round?
There's nothing left alive but a pair of glassy eyes.
Photos show no tears. All those pretty years gone by.
Put it on a show on cable.

It's nothing but time and a face that you lose.
And I walk along darkened corridors.

You know...it still kind of amazes me how often I get cool poems from this process.

More tomorrow.

Maybe.


Jim out.