April 2, 2013
Lately, the days are pastel shades of tiny bits of money
Little prices, small moments of clarity (even smaller)
Do not shrink yourself, even in the full moment of sharing combat
They say most things come down to small, medium, or bigger than you need
Reaching back into the first moment of the first month of forgiveness
Nevertheless, a letter. a fit stanza of grief. a big bunch of words
having a fit, throwing a party, turning invitation into convulsion.
daily, we know about anger—its contours, trifles, ruffles—
beautiful dresses of anger trailing behind muscle, too much dress
for the anger, too much anger, never enough clothing to hide
the arms of a shivering, angry gash. the sleeve in which i place
my arms one by one, until eventually they line up.
Possible titles for a poem I may write today
“Love’s big ugly.”
Not sure about the title for this one, but the poem would revolve around the nodding and the sturdy head.
Perhaps the difference between anger and regret, but not within a poem (where to put it then?)
“The impermanence of severing.” As in, do I even believe in it? Does belief in the various parts of the body (torso, feet) liken to belief in severing? What is so important about belief?
The list of things my voice is not or a list of quiet bones, unheard bones, angry bones, listless bones, bored bones, self-conscious bones—not just muscles—and a list of all the body parts one might use in a fierce attack (e.g., the eyebrow as a vane for buckling knees, the elbow as silencing a male-dominated room, etc.). The poem might end with both the room and the bones upsettingly quiet.
The habitual misreading, and so a poem about quiet homes, bored homes, a self-conscious home—not a home made of muscles—and the fierce home of the voices which always already speak. These are the voices/bones which will become the quiet room, ideally.