Conscious uncoupling. . .

The prodigal son. . .

I haven't added a blog entry for two months. 

Returning to blogging after a long absence, I feel a bit like the prodigal son. I beg my own pardon, and that of my imaginary horde of followers. 

In my defense, my bank account is overdrawn, and so is my spirit. Writing at times like this feels like that old Air Supply song, "making love out of nothing at all."

I've been culling the internet, looking for inspiration. Instead, I find everyone at odds over political and religious matters. It doesn't help that I lurk on Facebook like I work for the NSA. 

Many of my friends have "rainbow-fied" their profile pictures in response to the Supreme Court's recent legalization of gay marriage nation-wide. I've posted some rainbows myself.  

In the meantime, I've been invited to a gay wedding; my significant other's uncle and his boyfriend are tying the knot in September. I went to their engagement party this weekend. They're happy. The families of the grooms are happy. 

Some of my religious relatives and acquaintances,  by contrast, are posting that they are troubled by the Supreme Court's flouting of God's law. They are cynical about the direction in which the country is headed. One aunt even wrote that she is "saddened" by all the rainbows showing up on social media. It's really a bad day when a rainbow can sadden you. 

All the dissent gives me a headache. But opinions are like chromosomes. Everyone has them, and I'm no different. 

I don't think homosexuality is a sin. I don't even think it's a choice. 

When I was in elementary school, a boy in my class was obviously gay. He preferred playing jumprope with the girls to playing kickball with the boys. Years later, I ran into him at a club and there he was, wearing spandex and as gay as he had always been. This guy was black and hard of hearing. He wouldn't have consciously chosen to make himself part of another minority. 

It's anecdotal evidence, but as a writer, I respect anecdotes. After all, they're stories. 

Anyhow, I have been trying to share my story, scratching away, mainly at poetry. My current genre is epigrams, short rhymed pieces in the vein of Dorothy Parker and Edna St. Vincent Millay. As I recently quipped, "I'm playing with words for playing's sake, till my lyrics are limp and my metaphors ache." Here are a few of my latest. 

Booze 
I like to test my balance, 
just a couple times a year.
There's something rather freeing
in a glut of wine or beer. 

Some words need a cocktail's nudge
before they can be said. 
Won't you raise a glass to me, 
so I can lose my head? 

and

Moth
Fan me with your paper wings
before, like heat, you rise.
Don't hurry to the porch-light moon,
oh darling, shield your eyes. 

and

Going Green
I'm into recycling and vertical gardening
Telling the earth thanks, and begging your pardoning
Shrinking my footprint and going drought-tolerant
Going to protests and shouting and hollering

I'm point out chem trails and tilting at windmills
Creative repurposing, scouring landfills
I'm making a playground from old rubber tires
Throwing hard looks and gang signs at climate deniers 

and

They'd say I lost my innocence
I say I lost repression
Learned feeling any kind of up 
Is better than depression

and

An idealist has an idea list of how to make things better. 
A pessimist in the broiling heat says, "Better bring a sweater." 

and

The flower that she picks, elated
is looking rather pixelated. 

This kind of writing is nothing that will win me a Pulitzer Prize. It's not bringing home the bacon. But it's stringing words together, a writer's version of putting one foot in front of the other. 

—Sarah Torribio