reverberatory

lately i feel as though deciding when's the best time to buy gas is like playing "deal or no deal". i have to rationalize if this is the lowest it's gonna get or if there'll be a better deal tomorrow if i wait.

someday when i own a house, or if i decided to do some communal living in a house with housemates, i'd really like to have a big kitchen table. on a bi-weekly basis i join a group of friends around rachel's kitchen table at something we like to call "storytellers anonymous". there's something about that table i love – it's big, inviting, accommodating, and interactive. when i have guests, we often sit in my kitchen chatting, which is kind of odd because i have a really nice living room. but there's something about a conversation around a table that's creates an atmosphere for candid discussion. it's probably similar to the car conversation (don't get me started about car conversations, they're the best kind). around a table you're close and yet there's a table between you that acts as a buffer. you're somewhat confined, but there are things on the table which provide distraction or something to fiddle with. and generally talks that start around a table usually fizzle out if moved elsewhere, i think that's because they're spontaneous – you just have to talk and can't wait until you get to a comfy seat. i dunno. whatever it is.... i need to have a big table, i don't care about the kitchen, but a big table is a must.

we did a session on poetry tonight at storytellers. it got me wondering... what's the definition of a poem. what makes something a poem? some rhyme, some don't. is it the way a sentence is written? or the subject of the content? for example: does this old entry – key – constitute poetry? (excluding the quote as it was taken from an actual poem). i'm starting to wonder if i know how to write poety at all. i bought a book of poems this summer. here are two poems from it...

desire by langston hughes:
desire to us
was like a double death,
swift dying
of our mingled breath,
evaporation
of an unknown strange perfume
between us quickly
in a naked
room.

the shirt by jane kenyon:
the shirt touches his neck
and smoothes over his back.
it slides down his sides.
it even goes down below his belt –
down into his pants
lucky shirt

in case you noticed a theme there, it IS a book of erotic poems. anyways... these don't rhyme, so what is it about them that makes them poems? thoughts?

i didn't know anything at all.