Fuuuu-ck! I have so many words and it’s getting so late and I’m tired of giving you half the right amount of attention, blog. I am tired of being dismissive of your role in my life. Of betraying you by writing elsewhere, of not bearing my soul into your passive, peaceful, restive arms. I am here, my darling!
Watching the marvelous Focus Group by the marvelous Sara Benincasa for the second time which I backed and now has come magically to life.
I don’t know what to say. The things I talk about elsewhere I suppose I could talk about here. I suppose I could talk, but it’s not like it’s something that I can explain without using language I don’t care to use. Also, it’s not like it’s something that anyone needs to worry about, that alters anything, that need be noted anywhere. So we will sink into frippery and vague claims.
I have certain places to put myself now that make me distracted and jolly. You, sir, for whatsoever time remains us before we tire of one another, of the ruse, of the whole kit and its caboodle, are one such place. A Mr. among Misters. Chief in a few ways, mostly you’re just here and I am just here and that’s odd that there’s no there there. It’s just a lot of here. Too much here? It has not yet been determined. It’s just wild, lacking even the fearful brand of symmetry. It’s one of those situations that you think you understand while it’s happening, but can’t, can’t until you get far away and very still and very quiet and then you just laugh yourself awake.
I feel a charge of the ars poetica. I feel like I climbed through a dark tunnel, and there’s a thousand more to go, but, here, in between, we’ve got open air and moonlight. Both are dark, but one is free.
It’s this and it’s the filibuster and it’s the way I feel after reading the poem that everyone’s reading today and loving it in my own Good Bones, (thank you), I remembered that I wrote poems. I looked back and read a poem I wrote about how I wrote poetry. I have a lot of poems about my love of poetry. Poems that I believe no one has ever read. They are not great poems, but they feel great because they are tied to memories of hope, quilted to other poems that meant other things. I remember and it’s not a bittersweet remembrance because the desire has not diminished or been thwarted. It just finds fresh fuel and burns all the brighter now that I’ve cast my attention on its eternal flame.
The muse does not give you up if you do not give her up. She will chase you down alleys and dive off of parapets and clobber you if you smile twice. If you tell her she’s pretty or she’s got a thrilling turn of phrase.