Monday, April 25, 2011

Now For That Whole Poem, And Then Some

As Houses

Heavy
shades
games
played.

Ablaze
in this haze,
summer days
are better off
far away, but
winter without
a trace.

We’re always
seeking escape
from the isolation
we create – the desolation
of your absence
is better off
than our single-celled
seizure together, untenable.

I can entomb
in the cold,
grow old behind
film, reel upon
reel, emotions enacted
safe
from experience, enclosed,
never
know.

************************************************************************************
A friend of mine who read this poem told me she felt like killing herself now, thanks. Meanwhile, I didn't feel depressed about it -- 'til she said that. It can be difficult putting yourself out there, though, and paper rejections from magazines are the least of it. Those are impersonal.

In the more personal vein, there's the poetry teacher who waited 'til after I contracted her to offer a critique of my manuscript, American Woman, to inform me how much she dislikes any poetry that rhymes. That's the kind of caveat that puts me on the defensive, an opinion self-elevated to authority, and besides, I only rhyme some of the time, so...wait, why am I defending that? "Take all the rhymes out." That command also strikes me as a tad...ivory. If I was just a bit more neurotic, and sometimes this can be a fine line, I could have developed a complex over it.

Or an alleged friend, writer choosing to stop speaking to me with no explanation right after I gave her my play, Post-Apocalypse, dedicated to my deceased gay boyfriend in Nola, a choice I only found about out when she rejected my facebook request, twice, after I started a page there to help promote the readings I was producing of said play. wakka wakka.

Like that time I got fired by this woman only after my broke poet ass had put the payment down on a new car, something her and her middle-class non-poet minions kept asking me about: "Oh, did you get a new car yet?" Yes, minions, I know I was late once thanks to my Oldsmobile, Regency 98, year 1982, a loyal fortress of a vehicle until it wasn't and black plumes of smoke were blowing out from the tailpipe, after I had scraped and shoveled it out, after a car accident that left me with a kind of excruciating back injury, yes, five minutes late that day. "Oh, did you get a new car yet?" At last: "Yes." Now you can stop bugging me. A few days later, it's "I want to meet with you later." Later, it's "You're fired." double wakka.

The hostile can be so dull, let them have it though: I prefer to be fired.

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