A Love Poem

You say it's been awhile
since I've written you a love poem--
post-its on the spotted bathroom mirror
don't count, I know.
I want to protest and give you this
written proof
of my love,
tell you I write you poems all the time,
show you a shoebox full of inked paper,
but you're right.
It has been awhile.

In between cooking dinner--
orange chicken for couples with
"Perrier tastes on a tap water budget"
(and baby, that's us),
I sit and try to write
but the brown rice burns
and the oven timer beeps,
and is there, in the midst of all this,
time for
Love?

My only answer is
yes. Oh yes.
I water the plants and I read,
I stoop to kiss you.
This is enough.
Or how about this?
The way you fold into me
after we've spent the better
part of the night
rolling,
out of breath,
asking for more,
and asking for it harder.
The fit of you to me
is near perfect.

So, this is the love poem
you've been needing,
two years of Sundays later.
Low-lit evenings with dinner,
and a Love thicker than the blood
pushing through these tiny veins.

**********

This weekend, I sent out 18 different poems to 6 literary journals. I have never done this before. I am not expecting much, but it's a hell of a lot better than saying, "Next weekend is when I will start sending out stuff."

So it was raining

a lot this morning, and I was on my bike, pretty much soaked through to the skin, which was totally awesome. Not.

(Hell yes I am bringing back the "not.")

And I came to a stop sign, so I slowed and this kindly elderly man driving a red SUV down the slick street stopped in the middle of the road and yelled, "Stop sign! You have a stop sign! That means stop!" He also gestured wildly at the stop sign in case I was:

a.) retarded.
b.) not of his English-speaking community.
c.) retarded.

Thank God for citizens like this guy. Yes, indeedy.

I stared at him. Then I had this awesome vision of me getting off my bike, pointing to his stupid, ridiculous car, yelling "SUV! You drive an SUV. Foreign dependence on oil!" Then I would point at his person and yell, "Old! You are an old man! That means you are using up all my social security!"

Instead I gave what is maybe the worst insult a Midwesterner could give to another Midwesterner.

I did the slow, guilt-inducing head shake and mouthed, "For shame."

Tell Me, How Does Your Light Shine?

I cruise through the different radio stations at least 64,000 times as I make my thrice-weekly commute to the big city. Lots of people get me to where I need to go and I reminded why I love them.

I forget how much I love Three Dog Night until "Shambala" comes on. And I forget John Denver is gone until I hit seek and find "Thank God I'm a Country Boy." Elton and "Philadelphia Freedom," Garth Brooks and "Friends in Low Places." There isn't much better.

I've been rocking out to The Outfield (you know I like my girls a little bit older), UB40 (red, red wine), and The Cure.

Of course, we all hear songs and are reminded of something: something important, something sweet, something terribly sad and lonely. Today, I heard a song that took me back to the 3rd grade.

We used to sing an old country and western song, "Daddy's Hands," in elementary school choir, but some older kids changed the words, and it caught on, and pretty soon all you heard amid the playground monkey bars and merry-go-rounds was this:

Daddy's pants were soft and kind when I was cryin'
Daddy's pants were hard as steel when I done wrong.
Daddy's pants weren't always gentle,
but I have to understand,
there was always love in in Daddy's pants.

Goddamn, do you ever miss being the smartass you were when you were 10?

Rant

Wow.

So the campus bookstore is out of my book (and has been for awhile) for a cont. ed. class I teach, but never bothered to notify me. Most of my students do not have this book. "Hey," the bookstore says, "we ordered as many as we could. Sorry." Nice work, bookstore. A goddamn e-mail about it would have been nice before, say, the middle of goddamn September. Now I will be revising the course packet for the 2nd time because of texts. Maybe this time, I'll get paid for it.

Jesus Christ.

And the bookstore at the other campus I teach at is also out my required texts. "Hey," says the bookstore, "we didn't order enough." Thanks.

Nothing like constantly feeling jerked around.

It's Hard Being This Good

Thanks, Einstein!

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

(minus the emaciated)

Let the slow clap begin ...

Loverboy

Everybody's working for the weekend!

We are out of Clamato juice. Not cool.

Today, B told me that I was "so gay." Schyeah.

I feel like I am losing my tan. This makes me sad (but this is probably a symptom of withdrawal).

And, I need a haircut.

I embarassed myself in front of 3 (count 'em 3) classes by going on and on about Harry Potter.

Not only do I have Loverboy in my head, I had "Philadelphia Freedom" in my head all night. As I live and breathe, people.

This is nonsense.

First Year Experience

I have an idea for a FYE class. It came to me last night as I was partaking in the Spirit of Vermillion.

We got spirit, yes we do.
We got spirit, how about you,
Gayville? Yankton? Elk Point?

Back to my new FYE class for all incoming freshmen. I think the theme could be something along the lines of "How Not to Make the General Public Shake Their Heads in Disbelief and/or Disgust At You."

Here is what we would cover in HNTMTGPSTHIDAODAT. Perhaps the acronym won't catch on. Whatever. That's not the point.

1. One does not get to grind to any song recorded before 1991. If a Poison song comes on, one will listen respectfully and whip out some wicked awesome air guitar. NO GRINDING.

2. One should not wear a tiara or any t-shirt with subtle or blatant references to genitalia. Leave the Camp Morningwood shirts at home, kids.

3. If one is a female: One should not get to dry hump a pack of one's girlfriends on the dance floor and do all but strip each other down, especially when one's potential instructor, who actually digs girls "in that way" does not feel all that comfortable/safe putting her arm around another woman at, say, cheap movie night, when the theater is filled with these same dry humping girls who will be stopping off at the "Char" for tap beer and an undisclosed STD later that night. This is an issue of fairness. Thank you to K for bringing this to my attention.

4. If one is male: One does not turn a Journey song into a mosh pit. This should really be common knowledge.

5. One needs to really stop yelling, "Freebird."

I think these 5 threads should be enough to cover the entire semester.