20100526

notes on a wednesday night sitting on the floor watching the game writing poetry.

I find myself in a revising mood lately. Choosing poems at random, addressing issues in the work that clod along as I read them to myself, searching for something better to say or a better way to say something I've already said.  I write some new stuff as well, but it feels somehow like I'm cheating on some deep creative impulse I feel brewing in the mind-womb with a couple of passing thoughts on the boulevard.  It's like I'm dabbling in myself'.

This is an odd feeling.  To escape this feeling I have been reading a lot.  I've been reading and fretting about details.  I've been creating routines among empty spaces.  I sit and think about ways to bring order and security and purpose to moments as they occur and as they loom impatiently before me; I proceed to execute and/or destroy the impulse.

Looking through the poems again, I am obsessed with the idea that I can't tell what is simple and what is complex in each one.  I cannot assess what I have done or what I am doing.  I have a vague idea of how I have changed, and perhaps even how that has changed my work over the years.  My first obsession with my own poetry was in the 2nd grade.

I love driving just before sunset in the summer, feeling like the night is stretched out before me the way my life did when I was 15.

The way it feels right now to have an idea of how much more you love the people you love as time changes the lot.

The way it feels right now to be alive and have something to give.

Is it just me or am I back in the bubble?

20100506

don't put the weight of the world on your shoulders.

I am one of those people, like most people, who makes mistakes.  Sometimes I find myself caught in the middle of a tornado of inappropriate responses to my own, predictably infallible, behavior.  I battle, conquer and bury myself in a crypt of unimaginable stench.  For those around me, and for those who love me, this is a brining in the torture barrel; they are charged with the crusade to render me somehow myself again.  It is a crusade fought at the seat of the soul of our love.

Of course, the only reason I can say all this, being blind to my own bold revue, is that I am witness and crusader myself, for the ones I love who need me.