So, I know I've been away from the Twin Cities for a long time now, and I don't feel like I have a lot to show for it. I've spent a fair amount of money, I recently broke my phone (have to spend more money to get a new one) and I feel less sure of myself now than I did before I left. Cool, right? I'm sure some of my near and dear friends are tired of only hearing from me when I'm having existential crises, which to be fair is pretty often so I have to rotate my facebook messages. Now some of you might have capitalized "facebook" there, and usually I do, but I think it's enough of a monopoly for it to be lowercased. See, that's the kind of bullshit thinking I do instead of going out and doing fun things with my time. And since I tell myself I write for myself, instead of for people who may or may not read this and might not care anyway, here's a crappy poem to go along with this post.

Oh PS before I enter into the poem: I self-deprecate a lot but also can have a fragile ego. So when I criticize myself in public consistently I would appreciate it if you in the ether refrain from joining in too much. I'm sure many of you have some grievance with me but when I'm being especially publicly self-critical I'm actually saying "I feel bad about myself and I don't know how to properly say it and I feel ashamed of feeling bad please someone show me kindness and empathy." So, just so's youse know.

A Bad Poem

I intuit that traveling is almost always supposed to be upbeat, gratifying, fulfilling and give a show to friends and family living vicariously back home. No-one has actually demanded this of me, but life on Facebook helps cultivate the ideas, at least for me. So, I write some poetry for the first time in a while. I don't like sharing my bad poems but I feel compelled to foist something on the world, so here we are.

Can you panic in slow motion?
Do you find your brain is frantic as you try to fall asleep?
Too scared to make your body swim
Too used to keeping calm as you watch the grey days creep along
Busy watching yesterday turn into last week
Farsightedness isn't much good looking backwards

Phones help you, and me through the hours
Screening me from today's decisions
Selling tomorrow as a pleasant holiday
I pick up the stolen pen
Twirls it does and down again
How does the music play louder in the past?


The green leaves sit in the white rocks and do not move
Enclosed, protected.
They will only ever be green until they die
They do not need to find their sun
They just are, green