Tuesday Poem

I've owed this to sovay for a while, so here we go:

IN THE HIGH PLACES
Jonathan of the tribe of Benjamin,
the Name does not care where your bed is made
or with whom.

In the high places, you lie forever
next to your father's husk, your faces equal-empty,
eyes scooped and sealed.

Below, David rages back and forth
across the plains. You cannot see him, or he you.

You lie with your hand on your father's hilt,
his sword buried deep in your belly. You lie
together in last embrace, under
the sun's judging eye.

Michal is weeping, in her bridal suite.
David is weeping, on the plain below—sweat
dapples his face, and tears, and blood.
His mouth is hot, lips twisted painful;
his teeth grind.

Above, your lips cool, opening to admit the breeze,
the flies. The Name's kiss, His dread brazen voice
telling you: You have chosen the wrong king
between two kings, the wrong
love, between two loves.

No shame in your heart, even as it slows. So
was it another sting of guilt that spurred you to this,
for loving one not of your blood
better than your own blood's instigator?

(Yet all things come not from Saul but Him,
who made Saul,
in the end.
And forgetting this, not doing the other,
has been your only true mistake.)

Jonathan of Benjamin's tribe, the Name
has never cared where your bed was made,
or with whom—not once, not ever.
Until now.

And Then There's This:

BUILD YOUR OWN

Never sign for something you didn’t order.
That’s how I got this box of bones—
through the mail, unaddressed.
The delivery guy had shades on, and I
was too embarrassed to ask his name,
who he worked for. Just opened it up,
started putting them together without
a chart, from scratch.

By evening I had assembled a child
carved roughly out of sandstone,
with a beetles’ jaws, six spiny limbs,
the sun’s ball blazing where its eyes should go.
It grew fast, cried constantly, ate
all my cat’s food. It wanted toys, food, sex.
It wanted worship.

What sort of person would make any baby cry,
intentionally?

Now the boxes come daily. My apartment’s full
of gods: Small, large, benign, not.
They never sleep. Their beast-heads
crow and hiss, growl and whine and argue,
proclaim and entreat. THey prowl and spat.
They sing
awful songs out the window, trying to entice
passersby to love and feed them.
I can’t get a wink of rest.

My work’s fallen off, yet still
their patronage does save me—my boss
is far too scared to do more than complain.
I try to think of it as a form of supplication
to something bigger, less visible,
uncertain as to Who.
A prayer to be released, at length,
from this tedious favour.
No answer as yet, but every little bit helps,
is all I can think (or hope).

Excuse me: The bell.

Toosday Update

So: It's the end of World Horror Con in Salt Lake City, which I obviously didn't go to, and people I know are filtering home. Next on the docket is the double-punch of that Comic-con in Toronto and Ad Astra, both of which have their own problematic aspects; Ad Astra has moved hotels to somewhere inaccessible unless you have a car or are okay with very long TTC trips, and the double-booking makes it weird regardless, which means I'm not going to be doing my usual go-and-be-on-panels thing, since sticking around would necessitate me booking a room. Instead, I'm just going for the CZP Spring Line Launch, then doing a few room parties, and going home myself. Because I'm boring, har har.

After that, there's Readercon (which I damn well am going to) and World Fantasy in Toronto, which I'd be an idiot not to go to. Details for both need to be settled soon, though, so I'll get on that with Steve tonight.

Otherwise—got my test results back yesterday, and apparently, there's nothing functionally wrong with me. The doctor does think I might be right about Cal's adenoidal post-nasal-drip-all-night-leads-to-puking-up-bile-and-snot-in-the-morning-once-a-week syndrome, so I'm bringing him in to see him on Tuesday, plus taking him for an orthodontic assessment on Holiday Monday. And I missed the Autism Team meeting this morning, which sucks, but I gave them permission to go ahead without me, and will get a report on what happened later on.

I also decided not to continue with Adapted Yoga for Cal, because it was simply too damn late at night, as well as being incredibly frustrating for both of us. I think I'd rather take him to a park and let him freak out for an hour or so, then get him into bed early(ish) and read him more Adventures of Captain Underpants (which he's become weirdly enamoured of—so much so we got him the second one, which he of course won't let us read him any of. Yet.;)).

Now I'm doing Desktop housecleaning again. Disposed of a couple of the things on my immediate Projects list. Tonight, I think I'm going to concentrate on that intro for Kaaron Warren and a piece I've been asked to write about Caitlin R. Kiernan.

And tomorrow is my birthday. I think I'll spend it doing...the same stuff I usually do on Wednesdays! It's not all doom and gloom, though; last night, Steve surprised me by going by Rogers and finally getting a PVR, something we'd been talking about forever. He even set it all up so that nothing was lying on the floor in the morning. I've already programmed in a couple of series, and it's calibrated to switch to HD for things that broadcast in HD, which means last night's episode of The Voice was scarily good-looking.

Okay, that's me for today. I didn't watch Melancholia, and have to take it back tonight, but that's probably for the best. Frees me up to watch other stuff.

In conclusion: Lackadaisy update, Mordecai-centric! Start here (http://www.lackadaisycats.com/comic.php?comicid=119) A glorious combination of cool action and inadvertent comedy, with a literal “I meant to do that” moment.;) And please do check out my poems, because they're the first ones I've written this year.