Today turned out to be a snow day, so I stayed in and kept myself warm, while watching the snow drifting and listening to the wind howling. It turned out to be a good opportunity to tidy up a little bit, mainly the ever-growing pile of unopened mail. The pile included, among others, bank and 401(k) statements, thus resulting in an unplanned personal finances monitoring: I realized that I still have not completely recovered the 2009 losses in my 401(k), but there’s not much I can do about it at this point. After finishing with the mail pile and filing whatever papers I wanted to keep, I moved on the to the paper pile on my desk, which consisted of New Yorker, New York Times and Boston Globe articles, receipts and miscellaneous notes, which either I cannot read despite being written in my own handwriting or fail to recollect their significance or meaning.
I also found a poem in this pile. It seems that I wrote it while either intoxicated or extremely bored. The handwriting looks like mine, but only marginally. It is the most ridiculous piece of wanna-be poetry I have ever written, and pretty sure I have ever read. I found it hard to believe that I was able to write such an awful thing, either sober or drunk. It is uninspired, dull and quite lame. The blatant lack of lyricism is shocking. It is meant to be serious, I think, but it turns out ridiculous. It is so bad, it hurts. Brace yourself, dear reader, and read at your own peril, here it is:
Love Is Dead
Love died 19 years ago / And nothing feels / Like it felt back then / When you bathed me / And you put food / In my mouth while I / Was sitting in your lap / A glorious summer evening / With sunburnt faces / And empty stomachs / And bodies full of desire / We were together forever / So young and so pretty / And so intensely in love / How could we survive / The crash / How can I go on / Loving somebody else / When it is not you
You are cold / And I am fire / And I don’t know / What I’m doing with you / I don’t know what / Souls I can raise from the dead / My heat is not enough / My words are not enough.
The only good thing about it: it’s not too long.