dusk spirit, reincarnation
of first revolver, blued skin,
yellow scent of sulfur;

dusk ghost, revenant
knife, bone hilted, satin
sheen of used steel;

dusk moth, noose reviving
early but just in time, hairy
hemp burning into hide;

dusk bear, returned pills in a jar,
old whiskey on a bedside stand,
growling in preparation;

dusk man, dusky woman,
twilight of humor, a hand
dealt with bad faith;

all creatures of dusk
in their habitats, allotted
a space in which to wait;

sunset bringing options,
pain, surcease of pain,
upset carts, spilled fruit;

dimming birds not singing
because sound tastes bitter,
not flying for want of air;

night superfluous, sunrise
a joke, dusk alone
real and present;

break down,
let it go,
slip away.

I said something from the stage at the Hut tonight regarding the use of the phrase/image “bent over/fucked up the ass/getting the shaft” to illustrate something awful, like being at the mercy of the government or corporations. It’s almost always a guy who says it. It showed up a couple of times tonight in the open.

I suggested that the guys who used it might be a tad homophobic.

There was scattered applause, but applause wasn’t what I was looking for — I was more interested in getting people to see the potency and the ideas underlying a lot of slang. But I wonder, am I overreacting? Is noticing the source of an idiom unimportant?

In a conversation afterward, I voiced my similar feelings about referring to someone, male or female, as “my/your/his/her/their bitch,” with all its suggestions of subservience and submission.

Am I overanalyzing?

I don’t think of this as political correctness — I hate that phrase since it implies insincerity to me — but as making poets aware of the hidden spells and conjurings beneath our simplest language. I have no objections with someone who wants to say these things; I have strong objections with poems where things are said without regard to what they mean at all operative levels.

We get to do magic as poets. Magic requires understanding and intent at the very least.

I feel, sometimes, like I’m too rigid about these things…that I expect too much of those who purport to use language as art. But I guess my feeling is that if I can take the time to think about these things, anyone can. ANYONE.

People put too much reliance on talent and free expression as the building blocks of a poet’s craft. They forget that the words — how they mean, what they mean, why they mean what they mean — are fundamental, and if you use them, you ought to know how they work at al those levels.

My head hurts. This is why I think so often about stepping away from the poetry scene, I think…my own fucking standards are getting in the way of my ability to link with people. I hate that. I want to weep often. I want to close my eyes and not look outward.