Sunday, February 26, 2017

DEAR FANS,



As Herman Melville once wrote, It’s been a while. I let myself slack on my blogging. (Check it out: on the “blogroll” for the blog DROPTOPS AND STACY LATTISAW TAPES, I’m below 100 GRAND ON MY dang WRIST!!!! Pretty sure that’s a bad sign!) This is always the problem with blogging. When you're a couple months in, and that initial rush of picking a template and getting your first comment has subsided, you find yourself having to work harder and harder to get high, and ask yourself what  the point is, of all this blogging. This is where a lot of greenhorn bloggers delete their blogs. Not me, though. You can count on me. It's just hard, sometimes, to spend time on the internet like this and not let it turn me into a smug nihilist or a Needy Naomi. It's hard to remember the original divine purpose of the internet, which is to give us a platform to argue about music and movies with people who live far away. Of course, I'm part of the problem. I haven't been using this blog to argue about music and movies enough. It's all me, me, me. Listen to what I did today. I'm going to work on that next week, I promise. For now, though, look at this poem I wrote. (It was written back when I still referred to birding as "bird watching," but I decided to leave it that way because it works better rhythmically.) The dog in the first line is based on J-Bird's dog, Bosco, and this poem is lovingly dedicated to his memory.


BIRD WATCHER

The dog’s in the garage—
a fallen all-star from my squad
who broke free from this world of meat
to lick the face of God.
I’m going bird watching
as soon as I’m done graving.
I’m grabbing those binoculars
that cost me all my savings.
Deep into the forest, now,
I’ve worn holes into my socks.
But still, ahead’s where I must plow,
clutching my trusty binocs.
It’s raining cats and dogs outside
and outside’s where I’m at.
I wish I had some kind of roof
to block the dogs and cats.
Why did I come thwacking
through the misty woods this eve?
I wonder as I slip and fall
upon the winter leaves. 
Then lightning strike a tree nearby
and, fearing death, I shriek.
But there, in the electric sky
I see a robin’s beak!
I mark it in my Sibley
pump my fist and take a shot,
and try to do it glibly
but I scream: “IT’S ALL I’VE GOT!”
I wish that I could clarify
but I can’t find the words.
It’s just so great to be out here
with me.
Me and my birds. 

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