From cb93d15fc0557bb5d6a68359f6294b1abbb8130e Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001
From: Case Duckworth
Date: Sun, 1 Mar 2015 18:18:41 -0700
Subject: Add two more poems

---
 src/hard-game.txt   | 26 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++
 src/real-writer.txt | 37 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
 2 files changed, 63 insertions(+)
 create mode 100644 src/hard-game.txt
 create mode 100644 src/real-writer.txt

(limited to 'src')

diff --git a/src/hard-game.txt b/src/hard-game.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..04b316d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/src/hard-game.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,26 @@
+---
+title: A hard game
+genre: verse
+
+project:
+    title: Autocento of the breakfast table
+    css: autocento
+...
+
+You think building Hoggle's a hard game?  \
+You know bunk.  Writing a ghazal's a hard game.
+
+Let's meet in a place where words & fabric play--- \
+but not plastic words.  Boggle's a hard game.
+
+A cookout where we can hash our differences \
+over steak, though making it sizzle's a hard game.
+
+Let's go to a brothel, rub shoulders with bare \
+shoulders, or a bar.  Being wastrel's a hard game.
+
+Maybe we could switch professions, you and I, \
+you write the poems, I'll puppet Fozzie - a hard game.
+
+When you call me, you never say my name.  \
+Creativity's a hose---checking the nozzle's a hard game.
diff --git a/src/real-writer.txt b/src/real-writer.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..12c2170
--- /dev/null
+++ b/src/real-writer.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,37 @@
+---
+title: A real writer
+genre: verse
+
+project:
+    title: Autocento of the breakfast table
+    css: autocento
+...
+
+Sometimes I feel as though I am not a real writer.  \
+I don't smoke.  I don't wake up early but I don't sleep \
+all day either.  I find myself increasingly interested \
+in dumb luck.  Chance: I've found two dimes in as many \
+days.  Does this mean I've found twenty lucky pennies?  \
+I want you to participate.  You the reader.  You, \
+the probabilistic god of my dreams.  I've been having \
+strange dreams lately.  I don't remember them but \
+they leave impressions.  A bare foot.  A tunnel \
+of hair from her face to mine.  A boat stranded \
+in a living-room.  Something warm.  Something like the sun \
+through my eyelids.  A hand, with all its dead symbology.  \
+My teeth have fallen out.  No, you pulled them out \
+with your hands, threw them over your left shoulder \
+like salt, to wish away bad luck.  I have something \
+to tell you: bad luck follows like a dog.  It lets you \
+get ahead for a few days, a week, a year.  You'll see, \
+it'll bite your sleeping face when you're not looking.  \
+I've been dreaming about the future, I know.  In my dream \
+I am not a writer, I live in a place with rain.  You \
+are sunning yourself as you read this, on a beach or \
+maybe a desert.  Let me move in with you.  I can cook \
+or clean or take care of your dog while you're out.  \
+I'll never have to write again.  I'll watch television.  \
+Do I want to become a writer?  Tell me.  Should I smoke?  \
+I can sleep all day in your attic if you want, become \
+your god, lose my own, settle to the bottom of the bed \
+like a boat in a river, dream about nothing but furniture.
-- 
cgit 1.4.1-21-gabe81