Don’t ask me how I am today, for you will get two unpleasant things. First, you will get speared with my “Ice Queen Dagger Stare” and second you will get the sad reply:

   “Depressing, really….” Which will be followed by a mournful sigh and then I will continue staring out the window, because you reminded me of why it was a bad day. Do not bother asking what makes it bad, for it will be solved when I have talked with my sister, or after I’ve let it sink in. All will turn out right, either way.

   Dang it! I was just getting over it, too.

   Anywhooooo…… Anyone ever read Emma? You should, it’s really good. I have to read it for school, but it’s one of those books that I’m glad I get to read.

   I have officially dropped the Brother’s Karamazov. I realised somewhere in the beginning of the third chapter that I had absolutely no incentive to read it, whatsoever. However, I’m still curious about it. So I may try again when I haven’t got so many books. Apologies to Jake.

   Now, on with the show.

   I’m going to a poetry reading tonight at the Art Centre. Philip Levine is the poet tonight. It should be interesting. Here are two poems that do not involve entrails of pigs or chopped off animal body parts…. Grim, I know. Aren you glad I posting two nice ones?

   I leave you now, to walk among the trees and asphalt of my beloved neighbourhood. You should lay down to sleep a dreamless sleep. Do not dwell upon the future, for it is in vain to worry about such things.
-Liv

A Sleepless Night

April, and the last of the plum blossoms
scatters on the black grass
before dawn. The sycamore, the lime,
the struck pine inhale
the first pale hints of sky.
An iron day,
I think, yet it will come
dazzling, the light
rise from the belly of leaves and pour
burning from the cups
of poppies.
The mockingbird squawks
from his perch, fidgets,
and settles back. The snail, awake
for good, trembles from his shell
and sets sail for China. My hand dances
in the memory of a million vanished stars.

A man has every place to lay his head.

Wisteria

The first purple wisteria
I recall from boyhood hung
on a wire outside the windows
of the breakfast room next door
at the home of Steve Pisaris.
I loved his tall, skinny daughter,
or so I thought, and I would wait
beside the back door, prostrate,
begging to be taken in. Perhaps
it was only the flowers of spring
with their sickening perfumes
that had infected me. When Steve
and Sophie and the three children
packed up and made the move west,
I went on spring after spring,
leaden with desire, half-asleep,
praying to die. Now I know
those prayers were answered.
That boy died, the brick houses
deepened and darkened with rain,
age, use, and finally closed
their eyes and dreamed the sleep
of California. I learned this
only today. Wakened early
in an empty house not lately
battered by storms, I looked
for nothing. On the surface
of the rain barrel, the paled,
shredded blossoms floated.

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2 Responses to “”

  1. CaliGurlie Says:

    i’ve never read emma…… but i have read that oliva book!!! hehe that book was awesome!
    Christina

  2. arun3 Says:

    Lol, away goes the karamazovs, eh? ah well, no feelings to hurt -djeikyb

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