vase of dead flowers on the mantel and everywhere is--socks, socks, socks!

we know. you don't think we know? we're not blogging. how could we? we don't sleep, we certainly aren't writing (well), we have aphasia. it's like this: your live in girlfriend/partner/spouse asks you to do ONE LITTLE THING, say, move the winter coats from the attic to the hall closet. or, repaint the deck chairs. you know what happens when you don't do it? (hannah's been nagging me to blog since sunday.) you say something idiotic and asking-for-it like, "guess what i did today?" what follows should be brilliant because you biked paris mountain or you got published or you figured out how to shave in the 2 ft by 2 ft shower. but you can't, because she's saying, "well, i certainly know what you DIDN'T do today. i ask you to do one thing, ONE THING...and i've got the children, for god's sake, while you're out gallivanting around with the guys."
this is my life. and we don't even live in the same state.
so, back to writing: you can just imagine how the poetry's going. listen, my rationale is this: britney spears loses her children. this is not so fascinating. but she finds out, gives them over, and GOES DIRECTLY TO THE TANNING BED. and radiohead is putting out a free album. and my student has shaved his head because of the bermese military. and my mom's drinking a bit too much and telling george--at his reading--that he really needs to have a book on tape. anyway, man, the world has gone from shifty to shiftier.
which brings me to five am this morning. can't sleep. fever. again. and i hate this. if you know me, the following won't surprise you: sickness is an act of failure. i can't have it, don't have time for it. but it's 4 hours until i can go to the vitamin shoppe and spend a hundred bucks on wellness.
i sign on gchat, meaning to talk to my friend kent who works in london. only, hannah pops up...but in that really annoying way where the red dot's beside her name. like, i'm here but f+ck off. this is our chat:
me: what the f+ck are you doing? go to sleep.
han: what are you doing? it's 6:30. *meanwhile, it's actually 6.
me: i can't blog! getting strep again!
han: about to wake up the kids. jesus, mame. wtf. you need the bourbon and honey thing.
me: are you awake like this every morning?
han: every f+cking day.
me: hannah is busy. you may be interrupting.
han: look outside. no wait, you can't. it's DARK.
me: whatever.
han: MOOOVE!
me: what does "a.m." mean?
han: huh
me: i guess "p.m." is post something.
han: hurts
han: ante meridien
han: from the latin for moon.
han: am going to make waffles with blueberries and flax.
me: lame
han: i'll call you at 9 when i'm getting ready. *what we do every morning
me: i'll be getting my hair chopped off and dyed. bye.
han: fine. bye.

see? we can't BLOG!!!! what the hell is happening. i return to a poem i've been working on for four f+ing years. i can't end it. i can't end this stupid, rancid, poem. i end it, "she finally said what she needn't say: i will see you in the morning, i will see you in the morning, i will see you in the morning." REALLY!!!??? blackberry, blackberry, blackberry. hass is the only one who can get away with that sort of copout of an ending. even bishop's is a lame, false, sense of closure in "the fish." rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! REALLY???!! because the fish won't die but won't live either and the colors? the colors are coming from motor oil. i hate everyone. what's worse is, i'm listening to the new t.pain/chris brown song, "put you to bed." (what? do you actually want to step to this right now?) and i get to the chorus:
i love it (i love it)
you love it (you love it)
everytime (everytime)
we touchin (we touchin)
i want it ( i want it)
you want it (you want it)
i'll see you (i'll see you)
in the morning (in the morning)

see? who the hell told me i could be a poet? now what i could do is make bank writing songs like "budda love" and such for keith sweat, jordan knight, and the like.