The End

1 February 2016

If you’ve run out of things to say you may need better ideas. Having left the city in a wheeled conveyance. It was one of several periods in a life largely ruled by hand-me-down leopard print. Lacking the whirl and swoop of her language. Airless sunset on the interstate. Advancing into a backyard filled with small white lights. I’d prefer it if timebanks were called laborbanks or skillbanks. Cut off by the tour bus. You haven’t walked down this street for two months & now half the shops are new. No more cookies for breakfast. To always be working & never be finished. Electrical hum & air conditioner hiss. Becca says it’s because we’re living on the internet in real time. I knew I shouldn’t be so scandalized. ALWAYS ALREADY PART OF THE PROBLEM. Itching under the skin of my arms. His mother could as easily have been one of my aunts. The erotic privacy of adolescence. Because in Coleridge it’s all storms and feelings. The pleasure of telling tales on a mutually-reviled acquaintance. Parental fragility. I am a professional & therefore I did not respond with lmgtfy.com. Was poetry ever successfully an art of seduction. I’m speaking historically. How did I give off the scent of caring person & was it too late to change. What do you believe available for your poetry. Kings and Queens. I know I cannot properly see my own biases. As though the page were a container to be filled with the political speech of the moment. But really I came for the couch and the enormous glass of wine. Just another night crying on the subway. I’ve identified a large plate-glass window as a precondition for this afternoon.

 


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