maybe i blog too much...

it's nice but i've got writters block.
if i could explain it i would use this analagy (i think this might be a metaphor);
it's like when your so horny you spend the day getting high and jerkin', the fantasies are fresh your own touch a relife from an akward lovers yet still no orgasim
because in the middle of an almost peak you loose it and start contempleting the demise of your last relationship. ya thats the way this writters block feels.

My friend mike referes to me as a poet and it makes me blush and feel uncomfortable.
not that thats a new thing.
i'm gonna try anyways bare with me.

it starts more beautifully then it ends.
since when it that new?
i see you
it's been along time
and i can't help but skipp to your embrase.
All six four of you curls around my body,
my friend from kamloops watches as he walks away
he smiles because he can see how happy we are.

This feeling lasts for a few days
though we are so drunk neither of us have a clear memory of it,
since when is this a new feeling?

as the weeks go by i distance myself
since when is this new?

we end up laying on red velvet
in a public space
you start with a text message to another whoes far away
'it's over'(reads the text message)
'now it's your turn'
...
i stare at him waiting for a clue that this is real.
I refuse my own dialoge
and demmande that yours becomes more lucid.

your eyes bat lashes trying to tell me stories
but i ran out of money to buy your lies
in fact i forgot altogether.

it ends in a story regarding the tale of a purchase.
and quickly forms itself into a
fable about a bottle and too many thank yous.

end, the.

ya, is that a poem?
kinda but how?
has the peoets job always been to tell the stories but in a dream like perspective?
what is the relationship between the story teller and the poet are they one of the same cloth?
things i can't help but wonder.
cheers julie