I'm always having to invent and abandon
writing strategies. Back to Seattle from
Chelan, I find no juice in the crossword.
Have to trick myself into the trance state
for poetry another way I haven't found
yet. Ed Hirsch sent me a note thanking
me for sending him my poem. He liked
he said seeing his talk return to him
as a poem. So that was fun and
that is done. Yesterday I looked at
corpses on the page, printing them
on my mysteriously functional again
printer. I have several thick slabs I have
no idea what to do with. I have difficulty
reading them, hearing them, owning them,
knowing them, believing in them. I
remember disowning an art project I
made from drawing on a coke bottle with
Elmer's glue ten minutes before class -
college art: the line. I had been excited
about and by it in process. The teacher
praised it, I felt unworthy, hadn't taken
enough time, in that tedious studious
way I approached classes - poring over
syllabi and textbooks and class notes,
asking always what does the teacher
want? ran away from college like
a six year old with my thumb out --
trying to escape everyone I tried
to please to find what I'd want.
And now here are my awkward poems
I want, make, love, abandon,
one by one by one by one.
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