Links:


Write me:
skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com

Archives:
Wednesday, 19 January
Absence

It has been a week since
I saw you last--
I see you now, wondering
Where has he gone?
What has he done?
Where are my pants?

I understand.
(Your pants are in a puddle at your feet.
You are on the Internet.
You were looking at pornography.
Speak, memory!)

It is true that I left you
For a week, maybe longer--
And I have so many tales to tell you
Of my time away . . .

One night was spent carousing with friends
At a local tavern, taking in idle beer
(Oh ho! And one was spilled into the
Wife's lap, and we laughed!)
And good company;
Someone ate pretzels.

I forget who.

This is why we blog. For these
Jewels of our lives.

On another night, we had dinner with
Good friends, and ate heartily of tapas
(Spanish food! It is all very small.)
And drank exotic concoctions in no small measure;
One was spilled into the wife's lap, again.

It is humorous!
And we made many a jest of wet crotches
(Some of them salacious!)
For we are a comical group.

The small Spanish food was uncommonly good,
And much remarked upon;
And if fond Memory serves, metaphors were
Employed comparing the quality of the Meal
To an Or-Gasm, a strange practice found in
Certain Eastern humping rituals.

I do not know. But it was a good meal,
And we ate it,
And, later, paid for it
With money.

Days later, we watched an entertainment,
A Moving Pict-O-Scope entitled
Arachno-Chap Versus Mollusk-Man!
Which was arresting, for the maiden in
The "moovler"--as the children call them--
Insisted upon a rather extravagant
Display of her . . .

I must leave off ere I stray into waters
That fashion--Satan's wanton tart ever--
Has polluted. Save it to say that I saw
Buttons.

(And yet I must confess it to be a
Superior spectacle to its predecessor,
A wretched thing entitled
Spid-O-Lad Battles A Large Cabbage.)

How did you live before without
This knowledge?

Ah, but in truth, I do confess that I
Abandoned you, left you to
Freeze for a time, for I also confess

That I was not moved to write; nor move,
Really, at all, least of all when there was
Foot-Ball on. I have had trouble
With a block in my brain that seems to say:

Perhaps you should just sit around.

I will try not to listen to that voice,
And will try faithfully to visit you more, friends,
My good friends,
You few,
You unlucky few
You tens of readers.


Note: Comments are closed on old entries.

Comments

You know, if this blog thing doesn't work out, you could always try your hand at poetry.

Oh wait, that doesn't make money, either. Right. Carry on.

Comment number: 005415   Posted by: Mickey on January 19, 2005 04:29 AM from IP: 68.19.230.30

You know what they say - Absence makes the head grow fondant. You have ably proven this aphorism. Ny deepest sympathies to you.

Comment number: 005416   Posted by: Jado on January 19, 2005 07:59 AM from IP: 63.109.229.22

Damn, I was kind of hoping you went away to another country again. I was looking forward to reading about the cabbies in Minsk or Budapest. I'm sure that former Iron Curtain countries have far more brutal taxi drivers than London, a city full of British people.

Comment number: 005417   Posted by: Fissell on January 19, 2005 08:09 AM from IP: 24.107.19.153

That was flawless. Thank you.

Comment number: 005418   Posted by: kristin on January 19, 2005 09:13 AM from IP: 192.128.166.68

perfect. very impressive.

Comment number: 005419   Posted by: lara on January 19, 2005 03:39 PM from IP: 69.86.135.73

Jesus: Nabakov, Shakespeare, and wet crotches. I bet if you submitted this and your wife's birthday poem in a portfolio, you could get into my old MA program.

Comment number: 005420   Posted by: constant reader on January 19, 2005 05:37 PM from IP: 24.124.71.113

Post a comment