in search of goldilocks

the space between the stars and comets, in sleep, has become something else --quite like a nightmare.

something still and dark and untraceable.

there, mother and dad and papa still eat out of cellophane bags, sucking dried bits off the threads of hard plastic tubes.

the rocket engines burn fuel at an even pace, but we aren't aging fast enough.

our history was to make history but the path seemed unusually....foreign.

it all seemed like a giant stretch.

i didn't know "us" like mama and papa knew them.

the only ones we knew were them and they made us so it seemed even more vital we find this other place

of spinning water

paul would remember better than me

he used to match up his baseball cards, memorizing the stats, the teams -- the cast of characters.

he never lost track of that.  i love that about paul.  even now.

but we're only floating now, the vessel that carries us a pitted piece of metal.

at the center. we are the seeds slowly drying out.

still fertile yet hovering, only hovering

trillions of miles to sail on fumes

like i said before, i don't know "us" and i can't quite understand if i'm speaking truly and accurately.

the bodies are all zipped up in nylon bags, stacked neatly in rows.  apart from us and yet still a part of us.  they are the storytellers and the final chapter.

we won't make it.  we will not sip what was promised to us. 

in these spaces of quiet, i sometimes hear the gears clicking, the engines reaching to ignite, the fuel spreading into its veins.

paul doesn't hear anything.  i don't really expect him to.  but, in the starry darkness, he still makes me laugh.

what is gone is what i see

Not counting my introductory Helping Spoonfuls riff, my first official post is actually a re-microwaved leftover from MySpace.  It is a poem called what is gone is what i see.

-----------------------------

it's something
near fastidiousness,
i think

thinking making
the most out
of nonsense

cut out
candy corn,
salted popcorn
on strings
and other
vices twiddling
their thumbs
on the calendar
grid

greed described
as petulance

these are the masks
of the season

these are the traps
hidden between
the racks of
wholesale goods
and lighted
grocery store aisles

what i am talking about
is not a hallmark
of tradition

it is not a trade
of something
taxed, bartered
or corrupted

it is a sentiment
of acceptance
on behalf
of all

and what makes 
us stronger does not
indeed make it better

what elapses
as time turns out
to be
not time at all

and
it is what we have
substituted for this virile mix
of blood, saliva
and dirt-caked
fingernails that
makes me shiver,
makes me superstitious,

keeps me dry

Open Your Mouth

I've always been a hungry boy.  Hungry for food, certainly.  But also, hungry for attention.  Unquestionably starving for art.  Mostly, ravenous for a simple connection.

Being an introvert, I oftentimes go hungry for long stretches of time, not even knowing I am starving myself through the process of living my life.  Wasting away in each moment-- reading Tolstoy, changing my new cat's clumpable litter, thinking about that next jog, belting out Janelle Monae's Tightrope as I nervously switch lanes on Lake Shore Drive.  It's these happy regimens that keep me locked onto my inward course, slowly and surely malnourishing myself.  And before I know it, my bones will be pushing out like elbows under my emaciated skin, my stomach shrunk to a peach pit, my spirit sapped and dehydrated.


But no more.

I am opening up my perverbial silverware drawer and stocking it full of spoons.  Wide spoons, wooden spoons, slotted spoons, silver spoons, teaspoons, those really long Dairy Queen red, plastic spoons -- it will be a mecca of spoons.  No one will cry out, "Where is my SPOON!?"  Because I will have them all between my knuckles, poised in my mouth, ready for any moment.  I will be ready for you, my friends.  And I fully intend to share.


You may ask yourself, "What is Seth doing with all these spoons?"  And I will say, "I have collected and brought them here for you. And only you. We shall eat together -- and dine with spoons!"

These spoons I speak of are mere symbols, of course.  You didn't actually think I was running around collecting a bunch of fucking spoons, did you?  Well, I didn't.  And yes, I just swore.  And yes, I realize family might be reading this.  But, it's important to note about these spoons.  They are the bridge between you and me.

I am asking you to open up....your mouth, your mind, your heart.  Let me fill up a small spoonful, lift it up to your mouth (Watch out! It's hot!) and take a sweet sip of...well, me.

This blog is a watering place where I will be dolloping (with my spoons) small samplings of my interests, my thoughts, my photography, my poetry....a collective of things that make me less hungry than I already am.  And I am inviting you to sit down and feast beside me.  

Here's the caveat.  I want you to tell me what you like -- and also, of course, what you don't like.  It wouldn't really be exciting if you came here and just read all about me.  It's the back-and-forth I crave; the witty, feisty banter that makes for a lively existence! 

A fair warning: conversations about religion, sports or politics will be extremely sparse (if not totally non-existent).  Hey now, don't hate! 

Are you beginning to see the fun we are about to have with our spoons?  

I am getting so incredibly hungry...and ready to start laying them all out.  

Which will you choose?  What size will it be?  What color?  Is it clean? Oh man, I hope so.

Ready. Set. Open up!