Thursday. Girl’s Night. Tonight it included much chocolate, and many giggles. I don’t have much in the way of poem, just a few shards here and there, but I’m determined not to phone it in the way I’ve been doing much of this week. A tired brain makes no poems. That could be a tip.
A favorite teacher of mine posted this video earlier:
My Seniors did good work with this video. They hit up all the theory. Not to brag, or anything, but I’ve got some seriously beautiful weirdos on my docket.
Anyhow, I hope to write a slow poem tomorrow, but tonight has been a waste of poetic energies.
Sometimes Chance just goes off beat, just for a minute, and there may be something to that, or maybe not, we don’t know, it’s postmodern. It’s postmodern but not post knowledge, not postnow or postbeyond, this is here and art in the now. Sometimes when the rhythm returns it is fast and sweet and worth beholding, sometimes, just sometimes, it is the art in stuck in the craw.
Sometimes we crawl before chance, and sometimes we duck it, always we wait, and wait and wait for the worst of each nightmare to kick up and get it, always the great forgotten gets learned again and forgotten again, learned and forgotten is why they tell me Dedalus is a the father of foggy suns,
and why there are blackbirds here and there in the meantime. Is this the mean time? What is the middle of generational discontent, and am I discontented here int he meantime?
Poems and prayers are not a series of pretty questions, except tonight, when the questions are heavy on the young hearts and on the heavy moon. The heavy moon would carry it all, if only,
they would ask.
Sometimes Chance answers in bigger offers, and plumper berries, and sometimes the dj chooses it like starboard, like right into the wing, sometimes chance stops your heart and you have to recognize
Okay. That was not dashed off, at all. It was rather thought out, but still must appear a little scattered. I swear I’m going to catch up on sleep and put out a good poem at some point. Happy Thursday!