Apologies Are in Order

Ode to Trash Can

Wastepaper basket looms
over scattered almost-made shots,
three-pointer, buzzer-beaters,
fallen short, banked too harshly off the wall,
or nowhere close.
It's filled with slam-dunks,
success stories
(as distinct from successful stories)
marked over, crossed out
crumpled.
Corresponding desktop icon
never flocked by errant wads,
"send to trash"
always accurate.
Worthy trash sinks
through layers of paper
the solid stuff of life
bound for bottom.
Clinking dully
upon contact
discarded reminders
of relationships
plummet through
to the stifled blackness
to rest with rancid apple cores,
too cold for flies.

Poem:
I recently read a lot of poems by Dean Young for class, and I liked the fact that he started a lot of them with images, and then tied the images together. I intended to do the same thing here, beginning with a simple image of a trash can and moving on to other things. And then I never stopped writing about the trash can, which made the whole plan backfire. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow with something else.

Observation:
In Arizona I kept looking at the cars going by and thinking "Oh, that Dodge Charger looks cool. Too bad it's an irresponsible car." And then I realized it's only irresponsible if you live in a place that gets snow and where handling is important. Because heavy, torque-filled, rear-wheel drives are ridiculous here in Iowa for a good chunk of the year. But in Arizona? Fun all year. I am beginning to appreciate other places more and more. Also, I kept having to remind myself that the fact I was seeing all sorts of nice cars didn't mean the people there were any better off than here. I just got passed by so many cars every minute that I was exposed to a greater number of them, and since I eagerly ignored the mundane ones, the fact I was seeing nice ones so frequently skewed my perception. It was fun, though. Which reminds me: A couple of weeks ago I was biking back to my apartment after a ride that ended at my parents' house and I saw a Porsche Carrera. Since the speed limit was pretty low, I accelerated, and now I can say I passed a Porsche on my bike. Which might only be amusing to me, now that I think about it. Oh well.

Exercise:

Describe what you see in this photo. Describe what you don't see-- the interior. Describe the person who comes out of the place. What does the person do?

Sunlight settled through the gaps in the wood, making its way to the cracked floorboards, its path unimpeded by furniture. A mattress in the corner showed brief signs of movement before the figure on top fell once again into sleep, though the orange behind his eyelids betrayed the fact it had been light out for quite some time. Hours passed before he rose.
Alex was getting used to homelessness. He wasn't sure how many people remembered this place existed, but until they kicked him out, he was taking advantage of the luxury even these thin walls could provide. But the privacy was the major selling point. Well, that and the price. It was hard to attribute selling points to a squatter's residence, but he wasn't quite adapted to considering himself apart from society. He imagined the real estate listing:
One-room shack
still standing
window, door,
good view, pleasant surroundings.
He couldn't complain. And after pulling the mattress out of the dumpster and hauling it the two miles out of town, he was nearly considering the place the lap of luxury.

Me:
I found a new site with exercises/prompts, so I tried the first one out. I liked writing about an image.
I dislocated another finger at handball on Tuesday, which makes two fingers in two weeks. It is my left pinky this time, so it's not something I notice as much as my ring finger on my dominant hand. I hope this pace doesn't continue. I also got two letters of rejection in the mail for grad schools. I guess I'm just hoping bad things come in pairs these days. I played video games for eight hours straight on Monday, which is the reason I owe my readers an apology. I thought I'd have more time, but then it turned out I am as irresponsible as ever. Other than that, life is going pretty well.
That doesn't seem like enough, so here's something random: I thought the phrase was "making end's meat" instead of "making ends meet" for a very long time. Like, into high school. I have no idea why that is. I think I'll blame the fact that my family is vegetarian (though I'm not now), and as a kid I was constantly having to explain this concept to my peers or whoever else I thought needed to know. So meat was on the brain. Or maybe the fact that I was vegetarian made me unaware that there's no such thing as "end's meat." Either way, I only realized when I read the phrase in a book. It was quite a revelation.