Last night I stood in front of the poets in the bookstore as if their spines held heads up, heads with faces I’d kissed. I reached for C.D. Wright, creaked her open. Frank O’Hara I hardly looked him in the eye. I don’t think I can bare up under poetry anymore, how it whittles me down, dies my wool, strings me out. How a line breaks.
I walked away like I had closed my eyes during an eclipse, like I’d missed something cosmic, an explosion or a beautiful coming together.
I know voice, but I blog and forget my punk ways. This place is safe, and I’m both glad and disheartened by it, how as a poet I would have to change my name.
Later a friend laid her books down on the table, and on top was Matthew Dickman, All American Poem, and I reached for him when she went for another drink. It was a dangerous move.
2. How to Be an Explorer of the World from Brainpickings.
3. There’s only really one place we’re alive. No matter what a poem or a lover or a drink can do. Thanks to my dearest Ginny (who you need to know know know) I rightly remember life. She linked to this video the other day: