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2004-08-22 4 1:49 a.m.
"As you may know, admission to English 206: Intermediate Poetry Workshop is based on the consent of the instructor. In order to decide the final enrollment for the course, I need to see samples of your poetry. I would like to have at least three poems of yours by Wednesday, August 25. You can mail them to me now at Department of English, 1654B, Vanderbilt University..."
*sigh*
i've learned a lot this summer. i've felt a lot. experienced a lot. things i didn't ever expect to happen in my heart did happen...& things i didn't expect to happen outside my heart happened too. i think i'm able to say that through all of this, i haven't written a single poem. not one. in 3, 4, perhaps 6 months. i think back to my archives & i don't even feel that i have anything decent to submit. school starts wednesday & i don't even have real classes b/c i haven't really signed up. i have BS placeholder classes like 'intro to nutrition' or whatever 'trice had me sign up for. classes start in 4 days & we owe the school $9000+...even w/ me pulling this 40 hr week @ work, all that i earn is peanuts compared to that gargantuan figure. i haven't bought a single item of clothing all summer outside of socks & underwear. i'm praying & trusting & believing that this loan is going to go through...but for the first time, i'm not absolutely sure. i've got so comfy having all my prayers answered & all my miracles special-delivered...that i stopped *counting* on them so much. they became a simple matter of course & i turned my attention away...to pressing matters like growing spiritually & picking up the shambles of a friendship that was on fire. now here i am...
all set up in a dorm room, my stuff still in plastic boxes...computer, speakers, alarm clock & phone plugged in. no tv, no answer machine, no anything else. my own thoughts & mind. left to my own devices. & pondering...
pondering...
pondering.
edit: 2:41 am
i'm picking up the crushed bones of
words unspoken. scattered & serene,
they stare up from the sidewalk
and hurtle headlong into
pedestrian masks busily hiding their own
treasure troves of off-white glory
behind beer breath & bloodshot eyes.
& i stoop,
back broken with servitude,
body a misshapen road-sign pointing
the other way. my fingers grasp
at weed and moss and misery.
my heart twists
into grotesque self-parodies,
ventricle and vein criss-crossing
each other in obvious contempt.
the weight of words,
bitter on the tongue
& as unspoken as ever
throws a lopsided swagger into my gait
& like stale crust on a muddy lake
or pennies dropped
in a panhandler's cup
pride disturbs,
conspicuous on the surface
as a tear in linen. a ripple in time.
if i could say what i
so earnestly wished, i would
but silence is such willing camouflage
& slips through the cracks
of conversation with an effortlessness
almost liquid.
"...i do my best work / stressed out & under pressure / deep inside the mind's / where you'll find my buried treasure..."
(c) Method Man
re: Myspace...i dunno abt the clipboard idea, Purn. it screams 'writer' to me & i'm not sure i'm secure in self enough to deal w/ the sheer pretentiousness that such a title connotes. i guess identity is smthg i worry abt & the clipboard is a solid, tangible symbol of ID, & i'm all abt fluid rather fixed. i want to be a writer, but i don't want to be a 'writer'. i want to sit at the table of Yeats & Keats but then dip out the side door & run the gauntlets of the chittlin' circuit. i want to run from my own words & turn around & have them be right where i left them. this isn't a condemnation of the clipboard (i still think i might try it) so much as it's a documentation of my artist's paranoia. don't we all have that? me, you, dave, jess, karas? do i even know an artist who isn't paranoid?