I currently control 6 web spaces (counting my .mac space, which I really don’t, but I may start serving content from there if I run out of space with my current host), and I am thinking of adding another. All need a redesign. Only this site is far enough along that I can see the end.

 
• thisflapfirst.com
 
• fervorflower.com
 
• somedarkplace.com
 
• anansitech.com

I’m not sure which I am going to attack next. Probably my fervorflower site. I’m going to pair it down a bit, have it be a repository for the work that I am still happy with, rather than a catch all place like it was in the past. Some of my writing (some would argue most or all) really shouldn’t see the light of day, let alone be thrown up on some website. Yes, I know there is much worse crap out there, but this isn’t a good reason to have not-quite-so-crappy crap with my name on it.

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Paramour

For him she dressed as a sexy Bo-Peep,
took him to bed, and let him be a bhaaa-ad sheep.
Because of him her bed will always smell of butter
and future lovers will ask, “You eat a lot of popcorn in here?

Then there’s those photos she’ll never live down.

She didn’t mind being the good witch, kind of dug Dorothy,
even liked playing the bad, but the flying monkey bit was too far,
and she said “No!” to the munchkins. Decency demands a line!

She took the ropes, and the candle wax, and even the whips.
She played the games and bought the outfits
and for him she found a partner when he said he wanted a threesome.
Unfortunately, it was his best friend Steven.

For him she learned to like pain, but not as much as he did.
And she never got the whole toe sucking business,
though she kind of found it pleasing and surprisingly arousing.

For him she bought a dildo (this brought her to four, but don’t tell).
She let him teach her orgasm, something she’d learned from Seventeen
(when she was twelve). She wore the boots and corsets and wondered
if all men were like this.

She hoped so!

Early on, she decided he was the one, decided she’d do anything
for this man. No other way to explain the whole pony costume.
And she forgave him when he proudly told their friends,
“I’m back in the saddle again!”

It was love.

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In a field of shorn wheat
I jerk off into the stars
and dig in the dirt until my fingers bleed.
This is Nebraska.
Nothing like Iowa.
In Iowa it would be a field of harvested corn.
I’d still masturbate.

I take a drink of deep water and weep.
Cry myself to sleep
and dream of potatoes.

But that’s Idaho.

Would you think me mad if I said god speaks to me
or would you think me madder still if I said he didn’t but I believe?

Shining women scream and I taste the sounds of their words
and hear such colors as to make gods jealous.
I still feel pain.

I’m a simple man, not holy at all, not a praying man, too simple by far.
Feed me completely.

Whisper words into my soul:
Love and lust and compassion. Music and desire and death. Addiction and prayer and
weakness. Water and loss and orgasm. Vindication and forgiveness and nothing else.

Allow me this full harvest.
And under a cold moon I will rest with my cock in my hand.

christopher…. ‘08

My most recent poem. It still needs a bit a bit of work, since, as has been pointed out to me, Idaho isn’t in the Midwest.

I sometimes wonder if it’s wrong that I actually like the things I write. All the time I used to hear, “You are your own worst critic.” I don’t really believe this. There are plenty of people out there willing to piss all over anything creative anyone does. So I write what I would like to read. Enough authors I have met have said this to me, but the first was Steven Brust. “I write what I would want to read and hope others dig it as well,” he said. I believe this is a fair enough paraphrase.

Anyway, yesterday I wrote about how it had been over a decade since I’d written a poem. Follow the jump if you want to read the first poem I wrote when I took back up my pen. I still like it. Let me know what you think.

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I started writing poetry again (after over a decade long break) a little over three years ago. To me the writing has always been the beginning. Once I have a piece done I want to see how far I can take it. Produce spoken word audio. Throw it on a website. Put it together into a chapbook. Hell, even illustrate it (or have it illustrated). But the poem has always just been the start.

It’s also the easiest part of the process for me. I’ve got a backlog of poems with ideas of what to do with them. Getting to this is the rub. I decided to quit writing again partly to make things fresh once again, but mostly to force myself to approach these other projects. All I’ve managed to do, for the most part, is quit writing. Hey, it’s a step, right? Not really. I’ve been bouncing certain ideas around in my head for almost six months now with very little progress.

I guess updating my sites is a start, but not what I really want to get done! I want to put together another collection of my poems. Want to do audio for everything I have done in the last year or so (I eventually want a CD of my spoken word stuff). maybe bitching about it here will make me get off my ass and get some of them finished. I’d be happy to get just one done!