I know a Mrs. Whose sight is so small
Some days I’m not sure she has any at all.
She only likes words if they’re skinny and tall,
If they’re not from the book then they’re not words at all.
She sighs with malevolence, burning a hole
Right through my scuffed papers, on down to my…heart
You see, I switched words there, to drive Mrs. Mad
She scoffs at my adverbs and follows the fad
I know I can’t write, but that’s alright with me
No thanks to that Mrs., I’m just glad I can be.
Filed under: Vents
I saw a terrible heartache today. Gut-wrenching. I watched a girl learn to despise herself, again. My little girl, my precious best friend, my twenty-year-old baby sister lost all self-respect. In the words of one more articulate than I, I must demand to the sky, “What makes us so badly bent?” What makes us return to our mistakes like dogs to their own vomit? What makes a girl give herself away to the shadows and the monsters inside? And what makes me so mute? With such great heartache swelling up in my throat, cutting off my breath, I figured, this should make for a great poem…deep emotion, deep poetry, right? But I’m too sick. Poetry has a little beauty in it. Even the most sickening scene seems to have a little sheen when wrapped up in poetry. But I’m too sick. She, my princess, is beautiful, but there is nothing beautiful about this. At this point, words will do me about as much good as a rubber fishing lure in the Sahara. I’m so sick of words. Words words words words words. cheap cheap cheap cheap cheap. I am powerless. She is bleeding to death. Here I stand, sick of words. What makes me so badly bent?
Poetry requires a dastardly imbalance
this is why I cannot write
I always end up in the middle
I push pedal pull paddle pry
away from the middle
but I’m always in the middle
every way the middle
every day the middle
Poetry with its selfish arrogance,
rejecting my middle words,
bland and balanced words
My middle’s too mild to be mentioned
with its base alliteration
and middle-emotion
Being in the middle and all-
my words are too middle to matter
I wish I could make me not middle
I wish I could stop poem-ing
This is plain ridiculous.
[an eavesdropping on a prayer]
Everybody wants a hero, but nobody wants to stand next to one. Heroes are too radical. Sometimes they work up a sweat while they’re fighting to save you. Everyone wants a hero. and everybody hates perfection. and imperfection. they hate that too. so what is a hero to do? A hero can retreat or be burned at the stake. A hero can’t retreat, though, because everybody hates to be betrayed. Everybody hates to be abandoned. A hero can’t retreat and can’t stay standing What is a hero to do? Never stand up. Little Boy, they didn’t lie to you; you could be a hero some day. They didn’t lie to you. They only disguised the truth. If you stand and succeed they won’t like it. People like heroes in cartoons. in cartoons where they can’t touch or challenge anyone.
I feel defeated. I’ve been chasing Real since my first step. How can I chase something when I don’t even know what I’m looking for? The target changes every week and I just keep running in circles Every book and speaker and seminar and pastor and parent and mentor and friend and book and book and book and seminar and sermon and speech advocates a new philosophy, a new Real. Only one thing is real. I run to It and they tell me how to look at It. They all tell me something different and I’m left there in another circle, just forced to follow the voices telling me how to find the way to find Real. So, they say, just stop listening to the voices. Just wait for the voice of God. Then they tell you how to wait for the voice of God. Then they tell you what God sounds like. So before you know it, you’re running in a circle in a circle listening to the voices tell you how to find the way to find Real while not listening to the voices but instead to listen to them and wait to hear what they tell you God sounds like. I don’t feel better now.
How long will you make me chase this, God, when I don’t even know how to run?
