So it's been almost two weeks since I graduated, and I'm still not 100% sure what to do with myself. I know I need a job, and that I can't start until early June, but I just don't know what it is that I want to do... other than publish my writing.The graduation ceremony itself was interesting. I'm still not sure who our speaker was because his speech put me out quicker than half a bottle of Nyquil and a bottle of Jameson's. My freind Tiffany, who was the first and last person I hung out with as a GSU student, kept having to wake me up because I was snoring so loudly. I met her my first night at SOAR, a good two months before I started college, at the GSU oreintation, and we were fast friends, seeing as she enjoyed sitting back and making fun of the crap the other kids were participating in just as much as I did. Plus her boyfriend was 21 and got us booze...
So it's fitting that on graduation day that I found her while worming my way through the maze of clueless GSU graduates trying to find the series of lines per major and individual section of the school. I couldn't have located my ass with both hands and a government grant in that mass of American collegiate grey matter, so coming across Tiffany gave me the confidence I needed to just chill out and start making jokes like I did as a freshman.
So graduation was that much easier having her there joking with me about some of the things that people were doing during their own graduation. One girl had to run out off the field to vomit, and there were numerous highly visual hangovers (mine was ninja smooth that morning, and only peeked with frotnal lobe roundhouse kicks every now and then), and a group of three guys behind us who spent the whole ceremony on their phones, announcing that they would soon become Alu-min-ah.
So dressed in black and white, being jealous of all of the other school's cool colors (except drab, which is a pale shit-brown), I crossed the stage on the 10 yard line of the GSU Paulsen Stadium, starting out as a humble writing major and finishing as a certified semi-expert in writing methods and composition teaching history.
I decided that an appropriate thing to do would be to start my blog off by posting one of the poems that I've been working on for my Packing House Blues book. I like some form work, and this is set as a prose poem, and is based on some events that occured in the abandoned Statesboro meat packing plant (I'll post pics of it tomorrow).
Packing House Blues
(Just another woman I’ve loved and lost because she couldn’t take the writing)
She pulls my head back by grabbing my hair and yanking it down quicker than when she had wrestled my pants off earlier.
She shakes my blue journal with her free hand, swatting at my bare chest, my legs, my dick, screaming as her hair-filled hand pulls away with a large clump of blonde in her grip.
”What the fuck?” she yells and her breasts jiggle; I’m more interested in them than her hands, which are ripping and crumpling my writing.
She throws page after page at me, hitting my face, and asks, “How can you write down all of our personal shit and intimate moments? You talk about everything we do, but it’s nobody’s business! What if somebody was to read this some day?”
I sit down with my back against the frigid, spray-painted, concrete wall, look up at her nakedness (which until now I had admired as much as I held her dramatic tendencies in awe) and I say, “I really hope that someone does.”
It still needs work, and I feel that it is really too short, though most prose poems that I have seen are. I also don't feel that it quite captures the real irritation that I wanted it to towards how a lot of my exes feel about my writing. It's hard finding someone to understand.
So comments please, or some may find themselves subjected to unauthorized surgies replacing kidneys with coffee filters...
