Other Things
Yes, I do write other things. Essays. Short stories. Novellae. Poetry. Grants. Speeches. PowerPoint presentations. Carver-like experiments in verbal Jenga minimalism. Chunks of screenplays. Stage plays. The beginning and ending of a terrific science fiction novel that ceased production after my collaborator's life fell apart.
Lots of other things.
Some of it published in long-forgotten journals, some sold for a dollar or two here and there down through the years, most of it I shopped around until the number of rejection letters reached a critical mass and then I started shopping the next thing around.
I posted this piece nearly seven years on my then-brand-new site.
Given the season and the occasion of my blogiversary, it seemed like a fine idea to roll the stone away from the tomb of the penis cream and refinance spam under which it has been buried lo' these many years and
In answer to a question, yes, I write other things.
This morning, for example, it’s cold and raining in Chicago. Gelid…which is a word I don’t get to use a lot in polite conversation :) And it put me in mind of this little bit from Longfellow’s “Midnight Mass for the Dying Year”: And the hooded clouds, like friars/ Tell their beads in drops of rain.
And for no particular reason this came to me, so I jotted it down. So there you go.
As I went down in the river to pray
The best verse he could ever write
Alit on his shoulder as he stepped in the shower
While thinking that he had to remember
To pack shorts and sandals for his trip.
In twenty dancing diamond lines,
A full compass ‘round the life of Christ.
He smiled and shampooed his thinning hair.
“Sandals,” he thought, laughing. “Sandals!”
And then recalled he’d forgotten to order toner.
Oh, and buy Q-tips. And the potatoes had gone soft.
Then the bulb that lit the bathroom snuffed out,
And he tried to remember if he had a spare.
Later, standing, pen in hand, soapy, wet and crying,
Failing to tempt back the finest words that would ever come his way.
They had had something to do with sandals. And light.
And the eccentric way that prayers are answered.
Jesus stood in the doorway, barefoot and invisible.
“Hush now, son,” He whispered. “Don’t be like that.”
Remember, sometimes the music’s for the many,
And sometimes the music’s just for you.
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3 comments:
That's a nice little piece of writing there.
Wow.
Wow.
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