Wednesday, April 1, 2015

April 1

I think I've forgotten how,
but I was at a reading at Powell's Books tonight
to celebrate the first night of National Poetry Month
there were three readers, the first
a comfortable old Buddhist
writing comfortable old Buddhist poetry,
the second a thin bookish women who kept chickens
writing thin bookish chicken-keeping poetry
and a young, loud, confident girl yelling
young, confident girl poetry, and as I sat there
politely, drifting in and out
of paying attention, I felt myself
brimming over with impatience,
felt the impatience curdling into hate,
and the more I hated the more I thought,
well shit, I should try writing some of this
crap again, even if I have forgotten how,
because I don't know what else to do
with all this bile that's accumulating
in every corner of my life, threatening
to drown me here in Goose Hollow.
As I walked home from the reading
past the cars with tinted windows
and couples with eyes gleaming
in the candlelit restaurants,
a man in front of Fink's Luggage
twirled a handkerchief like a flag
of grimy surrender and asked if I had
any change. I shook my head. No change.
I still don't know if I can write a thing.

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