Translator, please?

I love this blog (click title for link) but I have no idea what it's about, as It's not written in English.

Anyone out there fluent enough in Spanish to enlighten me? I can pick out bits and pieces, but am hesitant to do so if one of you can scan and paraphrase. Who is the blogger? What's their purpose?



Many of these are clearly not original, but some of them might be. And most of them are really cool. The mystery of what's inspiring this blog might be half the allure for me, but you take a look and tell me what you think...

The Poetry Carnival is here!

Welcome, one and all, to the 6th Poetry Carnival!

Ars Poetica: A poem or verse which sets forth a poet’s principles for the art of poetry. Horace wrote the original Ars Poetica somewhere between 18 and 20 B.C. It reads like a thesis on the art of poetry – its purpose, its form, its intent.

Later, Archibald MacLiesh and Czeslaw Milosz were both inspired by Horace to craft their own verses with the borrowed title “Ars Poetica”, MacLiesh’s version can be read here.

This Carnival’s challenge is to create your own Ars Poetica. Dabble in art for art’s sake. What is your personal rulebook for the function, craft, form or purpose of a poem--or are there rules? What motivates you, a poet? What you seek to accomplish each time you set pen to paper (or fingertip to keyboard, as it may be)? What is a poem? What mustn’t it be? All mediums and formats welcome -- after all, you're the poet.

Submissions due by November 12 (next Saturday) at noon. They should be submitted to liz8murray@hotmail.com, or via the "email" button at the bottom of this post, and should include the following:

Your Name (or pseudonym):
Title of Blog:
URL of Blog:
Title of Poem:
Permalink URL of the Poem:
Excerpt to showcase:

To join the Poetry Carnival google group, go here and sign up. Or, click on the title, above, to link to danweasel's Poetry Carnival page. All are welcome!

Looking forward to your submissions... the carnival will be up Monday, November 14.

We're famous! Ok, not really...

Billy the Blogging Poet has highlighted Legwarmers as Day 52 of "100 Blogging Poets in 100 Days". Check it out here. But please note the disclaimer: 100 Blogging Poets is by NO means a "top 100" of sorts -- so don't go thinking I'm all special or anything... we all know better, don't we? :)

While perhaps I am neither famous nor talented, thanks, Billy, for bringing a whole new set of fresh meat to Legwarmers. I'm nothing if not lucky. :)

I may be the host of an upcoming Poetry Carnival... so watch for that. In the meantime, check out the last one here.

Never ever ride the bus late at night.

Whoa... Were my self-esteem directly tied to the emails I recieve after each post, the last post would have sent me into a complete me-loving frenzy. I would, in fact, be under the impression that I'm only a lyric away from signing a record deal and riding off into the sunset in a tinted-windowed tour bus surviving only on my ability to write mediocre verses. Which would mean I definitely need to go shopping for a leather jumpsuit and an entire wardrobe of sequins.

In short, thank you for your kind words. And message recieved. More to come, as soon as I'm struck by incredible boredom/self pity/love at first sight.

::steps off soapbox::

You remember that magical bus story from when you were little? What's it called?

::googles::

Aaah. "The Magic Schoolbus". Remember it? And Ms. Frizzle taking the kids on these crazy magical bus rides through the galaxy or their intestines or the deep deep scary-glowing-fish-who-look-like-aliens sea? I sort of felt like I was on the grown up, cracked-out version on the bus home last night.

I stayed out late after work with a couple co-workers. Saw a foreign film. Ok, it was an action flick.

::shifty eye action, lip biting, finger twiddling::

FINE. It was "In Her Shoes". Whatever.

The point is, after the movie I had to hop on a bus to get home. The stop I needed to use was the one on 3rd street, just up from the market, in a sketchy retail part of town. Stores close, freaks and gangsters come out, and the transients go to bed in every doorway.

So I'm waiting at the bus, and this guy who smells like he's never wiped in his life keeps walking by me and referring to a "sweetie" (which I sincerely hope wasn't me) and scratching all over and licking his lips. The 10 minutes I spend waiting at the bus stop were some of the longest minutes ever. THEN, I get on the bus, open my book, and begin to plug those uncomfortable little I-Pod headphones into my head when I (well, everyone on the bus) notice there's the quintessential meth-head on the bus, scratching and talking exactly one million miles an hour to what appears to be herself. Well, at first that's what I thought, until a pair of very loud African American women near the front engaged her in an argument.

Turns out My Friend Meth was saying 3 things over and over: "I'm native american!" "I just can't believe how black you are!" and "look at black curly black ness I can't believe gurgle gurgle..." or something. Anyway, lots about the blackness of the black hair of these women with curly black hair and brown skin. Meanwhile, the two ladies seem to have completely forgotten that this woman is clearly under the influence of the demon of drugs, and decide they'll get upset about crazy's comments and start yelling and threatening her. Well, at this point, all book-reading is futile as I'm devising a survival plan should things get ugly. Namely duck under the significantly large man sitting next to me. While I'm busy having escape fantasies and pretending I'm invisible by averting my eyes and ocasionally squeezing them shut and counting to ten, the bus driver begins to yell at the already yelling ladies, only worsening the problem and causing everyone on the bus to increase the intensity of their practiced eye aversion.

THEN, as if we all weren't WAY uncomfortable enough, some stressed-out passenger just can't wait and LIGHTS A CIGARETTE AND PROCEEDS TO SLOWLY AND DELIBERATELY SMOKE IT ON THE BUS.

Well, this drives the bus driver (heh heh) nearly off his rocker -- which is a bad, bad thing, as he's driving the bus that is supposed to deliver my ass safely home.

Which is where I eventually wound up, after we pulled over on Hwy 99 and threw a couple passengers out.

So it was an eventful night. Tonight, I think I'll watch "Lost" and maybe even pop some popcorn if I'm feeling crazy. Or illegally download a Metallica song. Oooooh. I've really turned over a new, brave, live-life-on-the-edge leaf, haven't I?

Aaw fuck it. I was always a good girl. No amount of piercing, swearing and drinking will cure me of that. Hope you're not dissapointed.

Today's soundtrack -- funky latin and old jazz, sung new:
"Mariposa (en Havana)" by Si Se
"Waters of March" sung by Jane Monheit
"Reflejo de Luna" by Alacran
"Don't leave me now" by Amparanoia

The untruth

You told me I was a hurricane, once;
sucking people up out of their lives
like frogs from their cool, happy creekbeds
and dropping them, shaken, somewhere hopeful and bright.

You told me I felt as natural as rain,
like soap on your damp body.
You said I left you cool but sweet;
I was proud of the traces me on your skin.

You watched my eyes burn but didn't tell me I was beautiful.
I forgot what to do when a man doesn't say that.
Each day you cleared your throat and didn't say it
I blinked and began to believe I was gone.

You called me a contradiction one day at the fair,
pointing out in my hair the chewed pencil that held it,
then breathing softly on the silver and diamonds
embedded proudly in each of my ears.

You said I spoke like a shotgun at three in the morning
after our talk left me pale and raw,
and I envied your aim; your sharpshooter hand so steady
it almost didn't hurt as I bled birdshot words.

You watched my eyes burn but didn't tell me I was beautiful.
I forgot what to do when a man doesn't say that.
Each day you blinked, cleared your throat and didn't say it
drove me closer and closer to gone.

You watched my eyes burn.
For you I was beautiful,
but I'd forgotten what to do when a man says that.

That day I didn't blink,
and when you finally said it

I was gone before you cleared your throat.

Chop, Chop...

Tonight is the night! Giant Panda and PUTS at Chop Suey. Last time I was there, the opening act (Byrdie) was significantly better (in spite of a sound crew who acted like they'd never seen a monitor before) than the headliner, who shall remain nameless. So I'm looking forward to an all-around strong show tonight.



Currently listening to:
Nikka Costa -- Push and Pull

Keep your warm buns to yourself, please.

I am a regular (twice daily) user of public transportation. Being in Seattle, I'm lucky that I've got access to a really good transit system (and one that runs partially on bio-diesel, no less).

I quite like the bus: it's regular, it's much much better than spending my life savings/beer money on gas that's so expensive it makes me hyperventilate, I don't have to park my bus, and my dog can ride with me. All these are good things.

But I have one major problem with riding the buses -- it's the invisible menace that has increasingly become a source of some anxiety for me each and every time I lower myself into one of the dozens of map-pattern upholstered buckets.

Warm seats.

I hate them. There's something so creepy and gross about sitting down on a bus in the morning and feeling the heat from someone else's ass radiate into your pants until your butt is, in a sense, being heated by the left-behind energy waste of some stranger's derrierre. Call me crazy, but it just seems dirty... if there's heat left behind, there must be germs. Same concept as smells.

If you can smell something, that means there are tiny particles of that something in the air that are going into your nose and mouth. So if your roommate is the chili-eating kind, DO NOT under any circumstances use the restroom within 30 minutes of their exit or you'll be ingesting whatever is left stinking the air up.

Same goes, I think, for hot seats on busses.

It's just that my butt-heat is personal, you know? And I don't need any of yours, thanks.