circlemeetsline

The writing about was the writing.

Month: September, 2012

Sharp, enough, yet

This that prefers action verbs. This that writes. “This that” will have to do away with.

Remember memorizing villanelles to recite to your brain to slow it. Appropriately obsessive compulsive. Auden and Bishop as weapons.

As a child took to fight image with word and that quiet order of repetition.

Behind this: entryway, unguarded. Instead of this, exacting and precise.

Not to draw up the plan but to write the plan. There is a literal problem of geography that is complicated by chronology.

The outline isn’t sharp, enough, yet. This/that is throwaway. This that is everything.

Advertisements

Specific, worth and purpose

Last night I was in the shower and I called out to E. and to myself: I will never enjoy one minute of my life. There are too many conceivable contingencies each with specific anxieties. I was not being dramatic.

Earlier in the car we’d talked about leaving the kitten alone overnight. I said to E.: It’s not separation anxiety. It’s much more specific and obvious. If I’m not with him, he will maybe drop dead.

The problem is circle not syllogism.

I have been worried about poetry again. About my poetry its worth and cursed purpose. How it stands in the way of the story. This is my project, then, perhaps: To worry the poems to death, to kill them and let the story live.

Yes it is, absence-defined presence. It is two stories, that which did happen and that which did not happen. And all the iterations of what might. I cannot abide a one-sided conversation; this is worrisome.

And suddenly there is no window.

Lines 2

It stands in, quickly relevant and on-its-feet with an assembled spectatorship.

He refuses to participate. Worse, he willingly participates.

Oh, that’s just a poem. Don’t worry, you will know.

Its constitution, firmly established precedents. You will

Pretense was an old favorite, and it creeps into that half-reality of that nightmare.

Look at the urn. Believe only what you can see –

If you have to cling to science, that doesn’t constitute belief.

Why          does           that          still           matter.

Give a line assistance and it will breathe.

Look at the urn. You cannot validate your suffering.

Not to write at all. Assert that independence from the burdensome knowledge.

You cannot cling to this validation. The residuals approximate the variables.

I liked to watch the frightening way the wind kicked up the sand.

To push past precedent, passed pretense          why that still –

Resounds for me, sound it out again because the lines are separated.

Lines 1

Take away its power by saying it out loud. No, it’s not enough – write it down.

An original story. A story toward the bottom of the pile of stories.

You are left talking to yourself if you can’t believe in anything.

I’ve considered writing more than I’ve written. I do not have a boundary.

I have never considered it’d be better not to write at all.

There is always audience. You, he, they, her, it it it.

Take away its power by figuring out how to stop being angry. No, it’s not easy –

Take away the only comfort I knew was mine, deserved
Take away the only kind of reassurance that still mattered

You are left, a year later. You do not want to be the more loving one.

Jump with me, play the game where I hide the meaning poorly, evenly split.

Line, it’s all line again. The angry line. The defiant line. The needling line.

Percussive, scraped –

Too much too intense too line story that original binding, first edition.

Her she isn’t, and you weren’t, and they aren’t. It won’t stop.

Play a game for me, where you give the meaning, poorly.