Where did my brain go? Oh, it’s there again

By | 1 June 2022

After Camp Hill

When I see Felice I feel
the urge to write. Isn’t that funny felice?
I feel the urge. Maybe
you knew me in another life or
maybe you remind me of my life’s work
or that thing they call passion ‘find what it is
that you love and you’ll never work a day
in your life.’ how trite. like a trifle. like the meat trifle
rachel made in that thanksgiving episode of the cursed TV
show (already the subject of a poem called Monica so let’s not go
into it felice, okay?). I can’t find what i love as i love my
cats and i love bad poems and
i love using ‘bad’ words at the end of the line
the enjambment is more meaningful when you have to think
about it. think: why did you put that there, tracy brimhall?
why there, sinead morrissey? when someone says to me they love
poetry i say oh yes? My being coy
doesn’t help here because, according
to the five years i spent at university, only certain poems
are poems. the words have ruined me for other poems.
all i write now are: lists; letters; notes to self; journal entries.
journal entries. and according to michael e. gerber, weirdo, the turn-key
model changed the world but universities are not built
on keys and neither are poems. when i’m at Queens
the poets in tenure tell me my poems are too sparse and ask why
but at home in brisbane what is sparse is better—distil it Felice.
but whatever you do don’t write a bad poem and don’t
end the line in a conjunction, definite article or other useless thing. Occasionally
i write sondheim lyrics or recite
flight of the conchords—not to pretend anything—but
to harken to joy or at least to try. Felice
tell me, have you heard Meleika speak. no? well
you’re missing out.

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