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I think maybe my job is hindering my growth as a human being. I think being around adolescents for too much time has retarded my development into a real grownup. Two reasons. 1) I pretty sure I’ve felt exactly this baffled by the entire world since I was seventeen. I am not getting wiser, here. Just more and more confused. Sometimes the confusion is awe, which is nice, and sometimes it is joy which, you know, joy, but joy is also confusing because why can’t we have it all the time? and 2) Every time I have a thought that I think might be wise, or smart, or funny, I suspect that I am late to the game, and that everyone has already had my particular epiphany, and I’m the bigger bananahead here.

See? I’m pretty sure that the insecurity, it’s catching. I go to school, surround myself with the adolescence, and bam, it’s like swine flu for the soul.

I’m poemcrastinating hard tonight. I started reading Maya Angelou again, and time got away from me. Earlier I had thoughts to finish the Calypso poem, but now I’m daunted.  So, poemy stuff. My daughter graduated from preschool today. They had a little graduation and everything. It was weird. Touching, yeah, but weird. Little kids reciting things creeps me out, a little. Of course, D-1 was the most spectacularly talented weird-rhyme-spiel-reciter up there. She said she was nervous in front of all the people, but she didn’t show it. Proud. There’s a theme, here. I might try the rhymed stanza tonight, because I wimped out on it last night. Ugh. Rhyming is hard. Whine Whine Whine.

Wing Fright

This is the feeling I require, the one like standing in the wings,

like just before the cue, like feathers down the back,

it is the same as the desire before all the sacred things,

the births and deaths and traps,


Before the Mother answers mischief, our secret makes us shiver,

before each inch of daring, that wave of tiny sparks,

a tide of pure sweet fear that reminds me of the river,

every eyelock with the reflection, will lead me to my mark.


At is high and blackest meltdown, me standing on the bank,

it’s that iffy unforeseeable, the water cutting underneath,

when my breath comes short and my limbs grow lank,

It’s a the smallest death each time and contains its own bequeath,


that when the fear surrounds like drowning, or like waiting in the wings,

that’s how I know the path is true, that ‘s how I know the way,

And now I know to wait and watch, I know the sacred things,

And when through fear I move at last, I’ll get there everyday.


It is official. I will rhyme no more forever. Experiment over. that was horrible, and not fun, and horrible. Happy Thursday.