Was also reading Pavlova awhile back and though I don’t agree with everything she says, I really like that bit about Yuri Gagarin. And this: Not to envy others is easy. It is difficult not to feel pleased when they envy you.
Progress report: one poem (still) scares me, another makes me want to kick myself in the (nonexistent) nads, and another I’ve tried practicing reading out loud. Productivity level was inversely proportional to yesterday’s.
Life report: Right now, very upset. 1.) Poet I used to idolize turned out to be a shoddy shod (don’t bother asking who or what or why) + really awkward feelings for someone I know following a recent revelation (no, no attraction. Just a teensy level of disgust and maybe a lot of resentment. Which is weird). 2.) Long letter I sent to my friend via snail mail did a Houdini and said friend received it WITH NO WRITING. And that, dear everyone, is why you should NEVER EVER EVER EVER USE ERASABLE INK when writing a Really Important Letter (the contents of which, since it was written a month ago, escapes my overused memory banks). I feel really bad about this since said erasable pen never failed me up until this point. My friend tried all means to decipher it (“heat on the stove, craypas, pencil, pastel, eraser”). Yes, I know, there’s the internet, why bother with snail mail, right? I don’t know. I’m sentimental that way. I like giving people I really care about something they can keep and hold. Something there. Not something dependent on the battery life of a laptop or the kerning of a font.
Like how the sun shone through that solitary blind today, talk about the puddle of milk spilled on the table while serving yourself some breakfast, consider the color of your wallpaper, the absence of a wallpaper, whose voice sings in your head right now, and what words do you find your thoughts clinging to over and over and over, whose voice have you erased, and at which syllable did you start with; how many ghosts inhabit your house right now and how many of said supernatural forces are you willing to entertain? What do you want to be, what does this morning decide you will become? A fish, a fiend, a fallen wing off a clumsy angel mid-flight? Just right now you took a wrong left, so open your hands and show me: what else have you taken?
How long do you wait until another line arrives, and with what do you intend to welcome it?
Which monster would you love
the most? The match-
stick, the gold-
fish, the ghost?
No need for a toast. Sit with me,
by the coast, come. Stay
with the monster
who loves you the most.
NaPoWriMo wankery. Har-dee-har-har.
Also because I was reading poetry to my 11-year-old sister the other day and she told me her teachers all tell her that poems should rhyme. Well. 5th grade. Ho-hum. Twiddle-dee et dum.
Stop. Set tests to top pots,
pets, testes. See? Steep toes step
so poets, pests, spots stoop
to tote tots’ tooooooots.
This is the inverse of the monster I have to wrestle with every night. But slowly, reining it in.