Tuesday, January 27, 2009

poem in progress

He says I write too much poetry about myself
I wonder if it’s about the poetry the
selfishly I predictably imagine it’s about me
I sigh
I leave the room vanquished I doom myself naked
I tell the same story break
Into smaller parts to swallow whole
Soul shoved down his throat
Wash it down
Eat me

I soak
That what he says he says over me
Presuming a twisted tangle for a dance
A stance about subject submissions
A beginning middle and end
And a dancefloor way more than I had envisioned

Well I am just not interested in that
The fact that you deem yourself such
That my hand is being forced
You said “too much”

I say this is not your spoken word poem
From someone known to some who may know him
Not some genesis song
Some this was the day let’s show’em
This is the howl of wind
Sifted through cuts in the armors of golden dreams
The only record of that particular battle
Ever found
Carving the place of the uttered and said on the ground
This, takes care of its own sound

Some details have fossilized at the cusps of my mind
Almost phantom-limbing it
Yes there have been knives but there have been wiser
Writing instruments branded here
Clear and ruthless dice
Breathing loudly on the page

I am teaching myself restraint
Letting things drip in heat and wait
Get sloppy
Deteriorate into singulars
The one laugh
The one tinge
The one
Last night to me was a whole epic story of us humans
For instance there wasn’t any sex
But it seemed like the light was wet

It will read "surrender was never a choice"
Its simplicity in narcissism will once again irritate
Self-martyrdom will be suggested as possible critique and
Agreed upon in uniquely inventive ways
Colorful language for a somber occasion people will say
Then they will remember it was to my face that they said
You are not
Pen but page
Not the right age
Size prize not coming backstage
They will remember a muzzle
We tried to reason with her they will say
Before it came to this
Warned her
Try journalism or history fucking rewrite a play
She wanted the tortured selfishness of verse
The hearse will look tricked out from below ground
Watching them mostly cry
I’ll be taking notes
For the next poem

Like that just like dead
But kicking I face myself I tinker
The entire world my squinting
Dazzled at the freedom ring that’s thinking
All my thoughts for the me that’s busy
Writing too much poetry