I don’t know what’s up with me tonight. I’m cranky, and I think it is because I read/listened to/watched too much news today. That, and we watched The Road in one of my classes, and that was okay, performance-wise, but inflicted the same kind of icky feeling that the book left. Like the man says, “Just remember that what you put in your head stays there forever.” Does that count for the news? Does it always feel like standing at the crumbling edge of history?
Here kind of a poem about that:
I need a cartoon to write this poem, in which I draw thick black lines on paper lined in school blue and maybe the graphite casts me back, to these junior high fathomings of terror, I need a cartoon balloon head with bubble thoughts blossoming around, and let’s show it in a screen to make the point clear.
Imagine the stick figure thinking, ebola doesn’t come from mosquitos, and that’s okay, but an epidemic is the beginning of pan, a little bout of pandemic, is one ingredient toward the fall that breaks out in breakouts. Imagine the lined and swollen head spinning with Mike Brown and Twilight: LA and Anna Deveare Smith and No Justice, No Peace, and Trayvon and Youtube. Envision now, Yazids, and isis I refuse to capitalize that and hot regions of hotbeds, listen now to Gaza and Gaza and Gaza and peace,
what do the Perseids look like in the washout? Can you see them like Robin Williams in the brightlights, in the stage lights, who looked like a meteor but hid star sadness? Who left us with the saddest joke in the world. How did the funniest man die?He died by fumes. Not funny.
It’s this patchwork news that brings on the collapse. Here we are under the supermoon, that blanks out the stars that fall. Can’t see them fall under this false light. This is the feel of the end of history.
No, I need two cartoons, maybe. That one up above with the swollen and pulsing head and circle dot eyes, and another, sweeter heart, big-lunged and alive, with silent crickets for bubbles and wonder for eyes, up on the mountain top stepped in the safety of berries.
Sometimes things just get stuck up there in the brainspace. I hope some of them made sense to you. Happy Monday, poem people.