Wednesday, March 16, 2011

season word

i see hounds sitting nearby waiting
black noses jutting from shadows at my elbow

cats fleeting against walls side to side eyes
mice dancing in a basket of lines


dying to compose
shards of plastic diss paper
basket waste high


dog still there eyes puffed with staring straight down some just-now-oncoming treat
heat rising from his coat the cats are dancing lights the mice have gone to dreary sleep


the idea of returning to poetry as an outlet rings gassy and obscene at times to me.
i stopped writing when in school someone who i showed my poems to said stick to drawing.
and i did.
but writing all along i guess, words bouncing on my tongue, rattling ears and reading signs.
that fellow postteen knew it all and to think the careless word of one twenty year old can skew the path of the nineteen, sad it is, and silly. that we the weight of others' imagined dreams should so stop us. but it does. or did.

anytime now we can swing around and seize that awful day or if that's too much we can wait it out, gnawing ourselves alone a grieving hermit, punching trees into tables and walls.
to think that writhing in our dust above a background yawning spiral would be chosen over striking out a new and living life!
we choose stasis, fattening the mind and not body moving, tapping out letters instead of dancing.
tenses abolished. i don't do tenses. moratorium on tenses.