Sunday, September 11, 2005

Born Slippy

It is 2 am and I am bursting with energy, as the cliche goes. The soundtrack to Trainspotting is going its assertive way as I sit here and think of the stuff that I could be doing besides stringing words together into coherency.

There's a lot going through my mind and I know I'm in a manic mode right now. It happens every fall. It happens when I have many tasks to complete and I complete them all in record time.

It makes me think of Theodore Roethke for some odd reason.

You know he died while swimming in a suburban swimming pool.

Perhaps that will be my next anthologized Gooflerific poem:

Theodore Roethke, dead
He who wrote of the subtle
Growth and the heater knock

He who had the snow slowly

And the headlights

He, admiring life but loving
Who wrote the simple words
Of a whiskey's waltz.

Dead in a pool
A swimming pool
At 58 55.

Something like that, anyway.

Boy, I think I know how Franz Schubert felt.


  1. 1) I did not know that about ole Theodore. 2) I like the poem. 3) I approve of the poetic turn our blogs have taken. I'm all for the poetic turn.

  2. The poetic turn is indeed good. Good it is.

    Roethke was 55, by the way--not 58.

  3. hi. that's a great late night album.