Monday, June 11, 2007

old, found poem fragments.


"There was"

There was a me that loved you.
But I stopped listening to her
years ago. She was always
wild-eyed and scary, stupid,
and crazy for love of you.

But I can’t hide from her longer.
It’s worth it to feel whole,
to turn around and hold her.
She had long hair and fewer
clothes. Remember?



She hands me a dirty canvas bag—
a load of change;
it’s so heavy around my neck,
crushed against my breast.
I fight the heat to breathe
and the lump topples into my trunk,
following me for days.

How can I not realize
that the change stifles?
(Because I carry it.)
Limitations dangling from
my shoulders, strapped around my eyes.

A burst of fresh air and
a still-aching heart,
a new loss.
These compete, change,
to unglue my notion of something
permanent .

and memories
That picture of a black-haired baby
circa 1986.
That is not me.


"What is it that poets fear?"

What is it that poets fear, you ask?
What musicians fear.
Everything is filtered, fitted, made art
from an inability to do otherwise,
a self-destructive need to reopen wounds.

I look at pictures, you say.
Because they make me hurt.
They always make me hurt—
the gentle throb of not being
somewhere I used to be,
my former self, loving
whom I loved and perhaps
love still. Being.
I want to look at being.
And it is so small, rectangular,
colored—or not. Small.


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