Monday, February 20, 2012

Shovel

This is not a poem. Why post it on my poetry blog? Because the thoughts come to me as I read through this volume of poetry and commentary I am set to critique. As I confront my own cowardice in forgiving the past and staying in the present. As I listen to one of my favorite sound collages that intertwines old recordings of Pound, Eliot, glitch, Slayer, Kronos, Miles, and so many other things that should not mix, about fear and loss and laughter. As I remember one I used to know, a wonderful but underpublished poet. And all this stands in the way of my head and heart speaking to each other, to anyone.

Suppose I should eat something now.
Suppose I should pick up my lithium and not go without any longer.
Suppose I should find my health insurance number and gather my aripiprazole, complete the gang of five that rights my tilted brain.
Suppose I should take the star-ended screwdriver and fix the hatchback latch of my lame little car.
Suppose I should call and ask for guidance in a journey through sobriety that I am afraid to take.
Suppose I should pray to the elements, meditate on the passing of all things.
Suppose I should begin to let go of the pain I had hoped would save me.
Suppose I should breathe, and weep, and breathe again.

No pretense, not a poem, nothing that necessarily belongs here. Just maybe just before here, in an imaginary pre-poetry blog, where I post to shovel the sidewalk to allow passage. As art, this is shit. But I'm not concerned with that. And, hopefully, you, Dear Reader, will overlook my failings here and return despite my unpoetic content.

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