Is responsibility only the ability to resist the urge to run for the hills? (Happy Tuesdsay, btw). It’s my day off, and it’s been off all day. My children are being evil (I know it is wildly unpopular to refer to your kids as evil. If there were a more appropriate word, I’d use it), laundry is oppressive, general funk has descended over the house. Nothing feels worth writing. A grand, roaring firework of a poem would be great, preferably about some issue that I care deeply about, but I’ve….got….nothin’.
There’s a certain mood I call “Nobody Girl”, and her only desire is to hit the road alone, stopping all the dark and smokey places with no real destination in mind. Gray days and relentless routine bring Nobody Girl ’round quick. I do wish I had something grander to write about. Of course, the issues call (woot Oklahoma woot!), but this dismal lame-o wouldn’t do them any justice. The question becomes, then, do I stay here, during naptime, and try to poem? Or do I wait until later, late at night, re-enter the soul cave and try then?
It makes me envy poets of found text, who, like the anonymous blogger who wrote “Adult Male”, taking lines from places like online dating sites. That would violate rule #1 on the 365 days 365 poems challenge, though.
No. No! Now it is. Still…. Nothing. Shit.
Many minutes later and I think discovered a new trick I’m calling “The Marilynn”. When stuck, make it sexy. I just read a bunch of sexy poems, and really, what’s more fun to think about? I don’t really mean just sexy poems, but lusty ones too, swingin’ poems, sashaying ones and love poems too. Desire is important. Marilynn knew that for sure.
Mounds of Grass on a Landscape, Mongolia
The mounds of grass in Mongolia are a hundred women floating together on an impossible green sea, breasts beaming skyward.
The hills of Napa are elbows and arms and tufts of hair, twisting bodies with no end.
There is a stillness in Dark Entry Forest, Connecticut that is the same breathless immortality as a first kiss or first transgression,
and it is and home to the village of the damned and aching.
The night is blue, the blue that washes out every color but each curving line in Utah desert.
The Blue Ice Airfields in Antarctica absorbs the red and yellow light into its core, and reflects the blue, sliding fast and frictionless into one blinding moment.
Here, where the Green Monarchs thrust down into the lake, where the wind lowers an octave to a huskier whisper, and the water yields to the earth
that is where the universe cups its hand between the thighs of separated lovers.
The longer you are gone, the more I see us fucking
in every sexy landscape.
the mounds in mongolia