Monday, March 1, 2010

the unavoiable underrating of the aesthetic potential of the white whale and all that he/she represents.

I wrote you a poem.
You've never seen it, you see (and I've never
mentioned it before), but I wrote it a few
months ago, in the middle of a dramatic dichotomy,
dictating every step my left foot took
and my right foot didn't.

It was the first poem I'd written in several--well,
several years, even, because not having
the guardrail of the English language (like prose
affords) scares me. There's nothing to hang onto.
There aren't any rules and there's no way of
knowing when something's over or when
the good part has just begun.

Remember that horrible night we watched that
horrible movie (okay, you like it, but I still think
it should be categorized as a form of cancer)
and I took notes?
I scribbled the perceived slights and potential offenses
that kept leaping out of the TV and flicking me
in the ear and four pages after my indignation ran out of ledger lines,
there were eight lines of rhyming verse.

I threw them out a few weeks ago.
I ripped them from their paper womb and tossed
them in the trash, for that is where refuse belongs,
and I could think of no better label,
no more appropriate moniker for what I didn't trust within myself.

I miss that poem.
It was good.
It followed rhythm like pentameter was a yellow brick road
and the rhymes schemed like a teenage bicycle gang
and it was lovely.
It was absolutely lovely.

But sometimes I think it's time to start over.
We're block towers, you and me, built up and broken down
and tumbling to earth as asteroids and the cycles
continue,
over and over,
until we can't do it anymore,
until we run out of blocks.

So I think I'm gonna build some new ones. New
blocks, I mean, and then another new tower from
those blocks. And I'm gonna see all of this. I'm gonna go
get started on the staircase.
Put a water bottle in your fanny back, darlin', because
while it might be a long way to the top,
but it's gonna be awful pretty up there.

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