And I can’t even take credit, because dead_kitty dropped superb editing on what I’d done and made it far better. Much more economical.

Hmmmmm…final_girl offered a new ending to one of my poems a week or so ago and it rocked. Maybe I’m better at starting poems these days than finishing them.

Never let it be said that I didn’t accept help from better poets when it was offered. I’m no idiot.

thank you, again…

😉

happy family

johnny dropped a penny. ellie
picked it up. saved a few
and bought johnny cigarettes. johnny
smoked them and didn’t speak to ellie
until he needed more.

johnny and ellie got married and
had kids. the kids rolled around
on the floor because
they were crazy anyway. they got pounded until
they fit the holes they fell into. everyday johnny

dropped a valentine in front of the kids
and they didn’t say anything
until they’d about chewed
each other’s arms off to get it.
then ellie asked them why they were such a mess.

and that is how it happens
that we find johnny and ellie smoking
and the kids cringing back
holding a valentine soaked in blood,
with pennies over their eyes.

johnny dropped a penny. ellie
picked it up. saved a few dozen
and bought johnny some cigarettes. johnny
smoked all of them and didn’t speak to ellie
until he needed more.

johnny and ellie got married and had a
couple kids. the kids grew up and
rolled around on the floor because
they were crazy anyway. they got pounded until
they fit the holes they fell into. everyday johnny

dropped a valentine within the reach of the kids
and they didn’t say anything
until they’d about chewed
each other’s arms off to get it.
then ellie always asked them why they were such a mess.

and that is how it happens
that we find johnny and ellie smoking
and the kids cringing back from them
holding a valentine soaked in blood,
with pennies over their eyes.

I just heard a Bright Eyes song on the way in — “Waste of Paint.”

Are they serious?

Is this band really popular?

This was the worst open mike/confessional/open heart bleeding/overlong piece of shit I’ve heard in ages.

Holy fuck.

Off to class…more later.

LEXICON DEVIL

Redefine everything:
the Language will protect you
from how slippery truth can be. In the Language,

if the stray bullet hits the man you love,
you may call it terrorism. If it hits the man you hate,
you may call it justice.

In the enemy’s night garden a red knife will be called a grey flower
and the white, misplaced faith of the children you just slew
will be called a mineshaft.

In the staring eyes of those young dead
there are mountains you find you can’t describe.
You see them now, you feel like you must have lived there once,

even if you can’t say it. Fortunately,
the Language you’re trained to speak will keep you
safe, warm, will hold you firmly as you step over the abyss.

This is your brain on alcohol. This is your friend’s brain on alcohol..and so is this…and there’s some more over there…

http://www.reuters.co.uk/newsPackageArticle.jhtml?type=worldNews&storyID=573875&section=news

I’ll be posting at odd points today. I’ll just update this entry, so keep checking back.

This is a second draft.

DEPRESSION, OFFHAND

The worst part is the sheer offhandedness of it —
how it happens suddenly not in response
to something obvious like disaster or storm-clouds but as an accessory
to good times, as if a just-acquired bauble was weighing me down.
Then again, the worst part is the sheer offhandedness of it

in the sense of emotional dislocation,
as if I were compelled to use an off-hand
in place of the accustomed one – reaching for the doorknob left-
handed and not right. Of course,
the worst part is the sheer offhandedness of it

in the sense of severed hands, my red stumps thumping
cruelly against the outside door, or finding myself unable
to fasten a bracelet, my arms upraised and helpless,
brandishing the remnants of utility as if the memory of utility alone
was enough to hold onto something.

Off-hand,
I would say the worst part is
the way your grip slips,
regardless
of the hold you use.

the column is finally up tonight.

Something a little off topic, I think; a column that is on the surface about poetry but is really about far more; about renewal, and the necessary dead time that precedes it.

There is a difference between owning your pain and wallowing in it.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I purchased a copy of Sharon Olds’ “The Unswept Room” yesterday because it had the most gorgeous cover I’ve ever seen on a book of poetry.

Of course, she’s also pretty good.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It’s too fucking humid for words. More of them tomorrow.

I feel somewhat better today, but not great.

I want to feel good again. I’d settle for good.

I feel distant from things. Unable to touch, or to be touched.

I, I, I. Bipolar is such a narcissistic condition.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

SPEAK on Wednesday was great. Our second anniversary. I turned the selection of themes over to the group, and there was great enthusiasm. Will post them later.

Also: we remain at twice a month, and we won’t be having features except on an occasional basis. (Like Rachel Kann on 9/22.)

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I still have nothing to say about the column.

The problem with treating writing as a spiritual practice is that when the spirit isn’t willing, the weak flesh feels justified in sitting it out.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Thanks to javabill and thisrabbit for offering a sympathetic place to hang last night. If I hadn’t talked, I would have exploded.

As it is, I’m sadder but wiser now. Maybe wiser can lead to happier. That would be nice.

I’ve always been of the mindset that I had to figure everything out rationally when I had a problem — which may be why I do so poorly with irrational issues, twisted and complex emotions.

Maybe wiser can lead to happier. Maybe it can’t.

I’m willing to entertain that possibility.

I have nothing to say anymore about poetry.

I keep trying, but nothing comes out.

I know I have more to say, but somehow I’m more interested in writing poems than writing about poems.

I think I’m aiming toward ending my tenure as an essayist, soon…getting harder to come up with topics than don’t seem like a rehash of past ones.

I need some inspiration.

I need a drink, as well, but I’m not drinking these days — maybe there’s a connection.

Questions from blindlyinnocent

1. What is your biggest fear that you still have yet to face?

I have an unreasonable fear of being hanged by the neck. Needless to say, I fantasize about it frequently.

2. What does the face of your mother look like?

Small, old, careworn, and filled with consternation upon seeing her son.

3. Describe the happiest moment you have had in your life up until now.

Certain moments after making love have been pleasurable…resting, comfortable, not alone.

4. If you could go back to highschool and start over again, knowing everything you know now, would you do it? Keep in mind you would have to live through everything all over again. Why did you answer as you did?

Yes. Except I’d be bolder. Less afraid to raise hell.

I answered that way because I’m a sucker for do-overs.

5. Are you a spiritual person? If so, where is the most spiritual place for you? If not, why not?

Yes. I find my spiritual side onstage, in my office writing, or, speaking in a low voice to friends.

Or…when I’m breathing.

Zero Point Zero won’t be up until Friday night — I gotta sleep.

blindlyinnocent left me these questions to answer. The same goes for them…not tonight, but shortly.

1. What is your biggest fear that you still have yet to face?
2. What does the face of your mother look like?
3. Describe the happiest moment you have had in your life up until now.
4. If you could go back to highschool and start over again, knowing everything you know now, would you do it? Keep in mind you would have to live through everything all over again. Why did you answer as you did?
5. Are you a spiritual person? If so, where is the most spiritual place for you? If not, why not?

I think the worst part is
the sheer offhandedness of it —

in the sense of it happening suddenly, not in response
to something obvious like disaster or stormclouds, but as an accessory
to good times, a just-acquired bauble weighing you down, as if
no good time was good unless chained to sorrow. Then again,

I think the worst part of it is
the sheer offhandedness of it —

in the sense of emotional dislocation, much like being compelled to use an off-hand
in place of the accustomed one – reaching for the doorknob left-
handed and not right, brushing teeth backward, and melody and harmony
changed about so nothing sounds as it should. Of course,

I think the worst part of it is
the sheer offhandedness of it –

in the sense of severed hands. Banging red stumps
cruelly against the door, unable to fasten a bracelet,
brandishing the remnants of utility as if the memory of it alone
was enough to hold something.

Off hand, I would say the worst part of it is
the way your grip slips, regardless of the hold you use.

Sounds just about perfect…at least, as it would have been circa 1978.

Your Ultimate One Night Stand… by crispnite
LJ Username
Favorite animal
You invite over…
They bring…
You talk about…
You end up…	falling in love
Quiz created with MemeGen!

The weekend was uneventful — good time at the Cape; since I’m not drinking right now, I played bartender and made excellent Bloody Marys for folks using Ketel One; played extensively with a 6-month old Golden Retriever pup and generally did very little.

Def Poetry really bit the big one last night, with nods to Ruby Dee, Bonafide, and Besskepp for not making my half hour a total loss.

OK. One more thing.

Just saying this to put last week’s disastrous breakdown to bed: Yup, it was that serious. Yup, I was ready. Yup, I’d planned the method. (A dive from the balcony on the fifth floor, here at work. Picked my spot and everything.) Yup, I’d written the note. (Some of you saw it before I took it down.)

I thought I’d let you know, just because I feel like I owe you all a debt of gratitude – the realization that it was real, coupled with the quick responses from some of you regarding your alarm — yeah, that’s what stopped it.

I’m ok now. I stepped up some of my meds based on doctor’s recommendations, and while I’m not thrilled with how I’m feeling (the old flat affect effect), it’s better than a swan dive.

Thanks again.

I realize, now, that my resistance to using this more extensively in my writing is a form of denial. (I know — you’re thinking it’s all I talk about. You have no idea how many pieces get discarded out of sheer disgust.)

I may decide to do a series on dealing with this — an exorcism of sorts.

OK. No more for now. That’s about all I can deal with, and please, don’t worry too much — I said I’m safe, and I am. Promise.

Would I lie to you?

Gone for the weekend — skipping the antislam — bye. See you Monday at the earliest, I think.