Mar 14, 2011

Hello, I'm Sam Same.

Sam Same was originally going to be the main character in an utterly absurd, epic poem. After four or so lines I gave up on writing it because it just wasn't taking shape (like play-dough in my unpracticed hands). Once the poem failed I moved Sam into a short story that was all about Poetry Outlet the place. But that story got too serious and too depressing. So it is under reconstruction/potential demolition. Until that comes to its proper end Sam has become a player in this story. The tale that follows is made entirely of non-sense and I doubt that it has much of a moral or least I didn't install one. The only thing that this story in meant to convey is a sense of intense okay-ness. I hope you enjoy it, if not then I hope that you enjoy not enjoying it:

The Most Breakfasty Breakfast and a Purchased Good-bye

One morning Sam Same rolled out of bed and proceeded to prepare the most breakfasty breakfast that had ever been prepared for the breaking of a fast. Sam fried one dozen eggs (some people praise omelets as being breakfast incarnate but Sam knew that nothing made from eggs said "good morning" like fried eggs). Sam fried one dozen bacon strips. Sam toasted one dozen toasts. Sam juiced one dozen oranges. Sam baked one dozen cinnamon rolls and Sam also prepared many other things in the format of twelve.

At 8:15 Patricia Purple arrived. Patricia was wearing an overly pink, pink dress. On her left foot was an orange rainboot and on her right foot was a grey slipper. On her head sat a mint green hat.
"Good morning Patty!" called Sam from the deepest recesses of his magnificent kitchen.
"Good morning Sam!" replied Patricia from the most middle center of Sam's living room, then, "It smells great! Fried eggs, right?"
"Yes fried eggs are our only option! I'll be right out, do you mind if we eat in the library? Horace Boris very much enjoys the smell of books with his breakfast."

---Horace Boris was Sam's roommate and good friend. H.B. had been born sometime in the future but had always felt like he had been born too late. Thankfully for Horace Boris the future had a time machine and so Horace Boris acted on his feelings and went home to the past where he and Sam hit it off rather well.---

Patricia skipped through the house to the elevator and rode it to the third floor. The third floor of Sam's house was the most third floor, floor in the house. It was also devoted to holding Sam's library. Sam's library was devoted to books. This was the bond between Sam and his library; they were both devoted to books.
Patricia danced to a paint-splattered chair at the end of the library-dinning table and set herself down in a sitting position. It seemed fitting that she should be sitting in a chair...standing on a chair is unnatural and standing IN a chair is absurd. Right about then Horace Boris floated down through the ceiling (though he would have called it the underside of his bedroom floor) he was reading the previous day's newspaper and smoking his pipe.
"Morning Patricia, the president is going to die tomorrow," said H.B. He always had some bit of history that would be news the next day.
"Good morning Horace Boris, you know, with all your hovering and floating you remind me of a maple leaf."
"Thank you Patricia. The maple leaf is going to become extinct in 50 years...just so you know."
Patricia was about to ask how to prevent such a terrible thing when Silent Quiet, the maid, came in bearing an obnoxiously large tray laden with one dozen each: fried eggs, bacons, orange juices, toasts, cinnamon rolls and dozens of other dozens. Sam Same strode in after her in his pickle-green and carrot-orange stripped pajamas.
"Hello all, I would ask you to sit down but I can see that you already have. Very fitting that you should be sitting, standing IN chairs seems absurd."
The three friends delved into that most breakfasty of breakfasts with vigor and vim and a little extra vigor while Silent Quiet went downstairs to clean the loudly colored carpets. The conversation at the table resembled silence, this was because no one spoke. Sam was violently reading a book with a bright red cover, it was an exciting volume. Patricia passively page-flipped through her chosen passage in her particular book. Horace Boris simply finished his paper and re-lit his pipe once he had finished eating. When they were all done eating Patricia saw herself out. Sam watched her leave so in a way he also saw her out. 
"You know Horace Boris, Willy Wonka was right. Parting is sweet sorrow."
"You mean Willy Shake?" corrected Horace Boris.
"Who? Anyway, wouldn't it be nice if one could purchase a parting? Everything gets easier if you can buy it. People go out to eat because they would rather buy the act of cooking than have to cook their food themselves. Yes...I wish I could purchase a parting," said sad Sam Same.
"But you can Sam, just buy the bye," and with that Horace Boris began floating back up to his room.
"Yes please, I'll take one of those," Sam called after him.
Sam put his book down and picked up his telephone. He called Patricia; well actually he called her Patty. Patricia answered her phone and called him Sam.
"Hey Patty, do you want to come over at lunchtime for a good read?" asked Sam.
Patricia, of course, wanted to. So she did.

The End

Mar 11, 2011

Thoughts on Thoughts

Here is a thought that I often have about thinking. I usually think it when I am thinking about the way that I think. I don't know how often you think about thinking, but I think it is a good idea.

I first had this revelation when I was reading Chronicles Part 1 by Bob Dylan. At some point that book fostered or planted or engendered this idea:

How active is my thinking? Is my brain merely aware of ideas or does it take hold of them and chew them up into little pieces? If my brain is only aware of concepts, beliefs, and ideas then I believe that it is like a baby eating cereal. Not a lot of progress. If, however, my brain is actively thinking (taking hold of new thoughts, reviewing and revising old ones) then it will not only be more productive but I am convinced it will be more creative. It will provide itself with more material for imagination and creation, or really it will make better use of the material it has been provided with.

Just a thought that I thought you might want to think about...if you think you want to.

Mar 9, 2011

Haiku 1

Most everyone learns how to write a haiku in elementary school. I know that I did, though I have never learned to write them well. This is probably the only one I have ever written that is worth reading. So here it sits.

Leaf falling; Water,
rising from below still as
stone. Catch and dissolve. 

Quality Literature at a Discount Rate

Why Poetry Outlet? Because I like poetry and I need an outlet for it. In my imagination and wildest dreams Poetry Outlet is simultaneously a store that sells under appreciated, unpublished and highly criticized literature; an album title; a short story; a play; this blog and a place in which I hope to someday spend a great deal of my time.
I keep a journal (sporadically) but I often find that I am writing for the sake of posterity. I take a tone and word things as if I was telling the future what I think about and how or why I think it. That seems to be what journaling is about, but I do not believe that all of my thoughts are for the future. Some of them are for the present. Some of them may be for a reader of this blog. Most of them are probably just for me.
What can you expect when you visit Poetry Outlet? I really don’t know. Maybe some sort of public journal, probably a scattering of mediocre poems, and always me: a very average young man who happens to think that sharing ideas is important.