Tim Sisk is a poet

In true narcissistic fashion, I Googled myself and found another poet Tim Sisk out there. You can read his work here. I'm particularly fond of his piece "The Failed Project of Friendship" seeing as how I'm teaching a class on the topic, it's a research interest of mine (particularly gender and friendship, gay men's friendship, and friendship in literature), and I don't think my friendship projects have failed, interpersonally, academically, or otherwise.

Take note of his rhyme scheme and over-wrought tone. I feel you, emotive Tim Sisk, though I hope I'm a better poet that you are. But hey, you're fighting the good fight, writing what you have to, making sense of the world. Isn't that our project as writers?

Google yourselves and see what interesting bits you find!

From Folks Who've Never Been Happy

Momma's up to it again. Putting out her husband just to take him back. She told my father she wanted him to remarry her, build her a house. He said that would mean he couldn't retire next year. His way of saying "yes." But she took back the other one, the drinking one with herniated discs, because she doesn't know how to be happy without him.

Momma's never been happy. I called today and asked her as much, and she said "what is happiness"? I don't have an answer for her. Like her, I, too, am never satisfied. I don't know what having enough is because I'm from a place and a people who always had too make do with too little. My grandmother is a magician with canned soup and coupons, and the Mississippi legislature always shaves more off the budget. I was educated at over-crowded schools by under-qualified teachers and had a momma who worked second jobs waiting tables to buy expensive shoes for my wide feet. I know how to appreciate what I have, but I know everything I have is provisional; it comes at a cost for somebody, somewhere. Usually due to the sacrifice of someone who loves me but is too tired to tell me so. I don't want to be that way, but I don't know any other way to be.

Now, I'm job hunting and packing to move. Finished with school, I'm a capital A Adult, and I don't know what I'm doing. Yes, I can pay my bills on time and wash my dishes and clean behind my ears. I can stretch a dollar and make do on small portions. But I feel the pressure of my legacy bearing down on me, the weight of all my mother's unhappiness, and her mother's and her mother's, so strongly I might rupture.

I know I can make do. But I want to do more than that. But with this economy and all.

(I promise I'm not suicidal or sad. Just contemplative and scared. What if the Real World eats me alive?)

Still Kicking Around

I didn't die, y'all. Though that bout of the flu I had over Spring Break almost did me in. I just went on hiatus while I wrote a Masters Thesis, a collection of poems with a critical introduction called "Parts of A Man." There are body parts and speaking parts and car parts and hair parts all throughout. Rereading it this morning, I think it's about as good as it's gonna get by Friday. And I'm pleased with it.

Now I'm buried under a slough of papers and quizzes to grade. My kiddos are staring me down with fervor each time I walk into the classroom.

All I do is write and teach and grade and watch the local news, it seems. It's official, y'all. I've become a boring adult.

Anybody up for Yatzee and bed by 8:30?