Robin’s egg in twigs,dried moss, browning things.Spring! Her nest trimmedwith last year’s ribbon:shock of Santa’s red.
Some optimism for Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden
Your voicein seven awkward syllablesleaning to maladroit:Heavy rain through an eavespoutmimicking your tone of voice,echoing meaningin low tympanic verse,symphonically flooded,a thunderflowing noiselike mallets on a prayer bowl.Rhythm me your voice--
After the introduction,the listing of accomplishments and accolades,thanks for being here and thanks for having me,and a short clip from the film,the first question was askedabout inspiration,the director took a heavy breathas if to signal the weight of his response,and then the audio cut out.A message read “temporarily unavailable”and no amount of clicking returned his voiceto my waiting ears.So I opened my notebook and wrote about itand felt glad.
Sundown shovelingpacking troublesat the approved hourPlow pushes worries asidein hegemonic heaves
Dig the heavy shitat the end of the driveContemplatinga different tomorrowif only we had chosena warmer climate
Still we persisttossing memories asideThis stitch in time savessunriseand we’re shoveling
under my eyecarrying necessitieslike a runaway’s satchelearnestly overstuffedHurts headedtoo close to the brainexpertly cordoned offand shunted downcheekin a steady streamof incongruity
I found myself crying at the endof a movie about writing poetry,and promised to write more poems.I’ve felt small, unable to addressthe fear and artifice and wonderthat adds up in frequently unequalmeasure to make a life. The catsits on my lap as my family sleeps.Fingers twined in her fur, I wonderabout sleep and dreams and beingawake at this time in human history.I’m still thinking about the movie,and figure so long as I’m hereI should document the hell out of it.So I start with this February morning:coffee, cat, a promise to write poems.
Living on Magazinethere’s no time for novelsop-eds onlyfiction if we’re luckyserialized over months or yearsThey think proles want glossy girlswith clever captionsSoon there will be no fictionjust approved opinionMagazinewill be renamed Truth StreetNo poets herebut writers for the Overgroundand readers of regret