A Frank Assessment of My Status as a Writer

Humility sucks.  Egoism sucks, too.  But what sucks worst is selling out to things you've really never wanted.  What sucks the most is not being able to write.  Every day, I write.  But it all sucks.  I keep telling myself I'm going to sit down and write and not stop until I get my genius back.  And all my fucking relatives, asking am I writing?  I can't stand it.  I want to write, but it's like I'm having a hard enough time thinking at all.  An integral part of my life is my confusion.  I can't remember the last time I actually completed a project.  My writing used to be my rebellion from the institution, from the family, etc.  Now, they're the ones who are looking at me, saying, "Are you writing?"  I wish they'd get off my fucking back.

I'm fighting very hard.  I'm not going to lose this.  I remember Ms. Whitney, a student teacher who I showed my poetry to, telling me that I must never let myself stop writing.  And the same thing at the writer's workshop I went to.  And then it happened.  And no matter how much I write, now, I don't feel any magic in any of it - just a kind of suffocating desolation.  It's like I've got so many things to do in my life, and I'm way behind and I can't forgive myself for blowing anything off.

I've still got everything else.  I've got the dreams, the idealism, the thoughts of death, the creativity, the soul, the faith - but I haven't got the fucking channel.  Not for the words.  It doesn't matter whether I'm a waitress or not.  It doesn't matter whether I'm with A. or not.  And maybe those things have changed things for me, but it shouldn't be like this.  I have so many things that I want to say, and I can't get any of it out.  I just want to scream and scream and scream or die until I can start over as a child.

Thousands of lives.  Thousands and thousands of souls.  And I'd like to be the one to die each time in her teens.  Childhood, over and over again. . .

(Sept. 1987)

Poetry: 100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)

Someday soon, I hope to become

that soft piece of rubber

with a Taoist look

and bounce

and bounce.

I am ready to take the first bite

of my quarter-pounder

I am ready to begin.

I'll take the low, low road,

but I'll get there, to the dinner party

eventually.

I'm doing it --

I'm taking the bite

"How is it?"

"Well done."

Why, thank you.

- April 25, 1986, A.D.

Tribute (to e.e.cummings)

e.) amazed, daz

zled (inconcievab

ly strange)

half warm and

half co

ld (e.)

play how you

play oh (is i

t only) hey now

hey now i

s this (a ga

me) how you

th (cummings)

ink?

(early '86)

Thanks for the Short-Term Memories, or How to Get Back on that Unicorn and Ride

I know you're thinking I'm stuck in the past, but if you knew me now, I don't think you would see that.  In fact, I'm not the kind of person who even remembers the past.  If it weren't for the old boxes of notebooks and journals that I saved (most of which haven't even been opened in 20 years), it would all be lost to the ether.  I can keep friends forever, but I don't hang on to memories.

And thank god for short-term memories.  When you're young, growing into new skin and falling in love every two weeks, it really helps to not remember every humiliation that naturally follows.

But I remember enough to tell you that 1985 was really great.  In '82, '83 and '84, I had been mesmerized by unrequited love like sparklers at a birthday party. 1985 was full-on Fourth of July fireworks.  I'll be honest - it was my best year for romantic adventures and real, requited love.  Finally, what all those poems were for, right?  It was "The Rise and Fall of the Love Empire", as I called it, and I had a lot of muses.  [All right, that sounds bad, but come on!  Do you really want this story to end without love, and, at long last, some randy romps through the garden of earthly delights?  After all I've been through?]

I might say something earnest, now, about how I learned something from each lover along the way.  This is true.  I had a lot to learn.  But the most remarkable thing about '85 for me was that I felt free.  Coming of age felt good.  I was self-confident and eager.  I was graduating, going to college, and the whole world felt like it was opening up to me.  I still went through some sad, teachable moments; but in hindsight, I can't complain.  There's a lot I did that year that I won't recommend to anyone's children.  For example, AIDS was just beginning to come into our consciousness, so throwing caution to the wind didn't seem like such a gamble.  But at some point, I have to admit it was just plain fun.  Exploits that my parents would have called "irresponsible" turned out to be a blast.  24 years later, I'm here to say that there was no harm done.

The adventures that I regret - the ones that hurt me the most - were all related to slavish devotion to men who would never love me the way I felt I should be loved (although, to be honest, the door swung both ways).  There's plenty of that in my future, by the way.  By comparison, the shallow trysts and the roads-going-nowhere, the "friends with benefits" and the well-meaning infatuations (followed by well-meaning changes of heart) were really just fine by me.  It was all great while it lasted, and it kept my spirits up and out of the gutter of depression that I tended to sink into when I was bored.

And through it all, I kept writing, as prolifically as ever.  My book was nearly complete:  "Poetry:  100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)".  Complete, but never sent out into the world.  Typed, bound, and left on my desk, along with a whole host of good intentions.  But I'm not going to get you down just yet.  For now, enjoy 1985 in all its glory.  It was the best of times, I'm sure - even for someone who can't remember.

Poetic Justice

Chills,

Thrills, and Spills

My soul is wriggling

beneath it's skin:

"Let me in!  Let me in!"

It's so sad to be Anonymous

and even I, myself, mistaken

I am shaken

to the bone

By Metaphor, Persona, and Tone

I am filled 

beyond my limit

with Symbolism

and Imagery in it

And just today, I've made my choice:

the world will know this poet's voice

So let the critics speak their fear

that yet another poet's here

And gladly starve, and gladly rot

for after death to share the spot

within a textbook, or a journal

or a placemat, or a paper

and though fame is known to taper --

Let me clearly be defined 

with little numbers by my lines

and little footnotes, stand to reason

when my speech is out of season

that professors will interpret

just the lines that they see fit

And happily, I'll face the hunger

both above and deep down under

but from the world, I do command

one single, solitary stand:

That in life, we be acknowledged

for the labor of our poet's hands.

- Dec. 16, 1985, A.D.

Poetry: 100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)

I keep imagining

this amazing dinner party

where everything I have written

is served on fine china

- yes, even the brussels sprouts are there,

sitting in a little metal dish behind the potatoes.

My fire burns in candles

among waxed fruit

My blood is in the wine (sorry Jesus -

I took your line)

I think it's a Chinese meal,

whose appetizers greatly outnumber the 

main courses

But oh! if you can handle the chopsticks,

you're in for a real nice surprise.

One note, however:

When the fortune cookies come, don't look!

Just close your eyes and swallow the paper whole

That way, it will always come true.

- Oct. 16, 1985, A.D.

Gone Fishing

Poetry

you have lost me

or have I lost you?

You came to me

when all was wrong

You came to me

and all was write

Poetry

you have evaded me

or have I evaded you?

- Aug. 26, 1985, A.D.

Write

Write.

Write, Write.

Succession of obsessions

and grab-bag nuances

and dreams dancing to life

from the hand -

she has such mystique.           (they say)

Love-dappled paintbrush pencil

dip, dip stroke

switch to blue, then change the hues

what a hand

what meaning has this hand?

Write.

Write, Write.

Fear makes me fill these pages

a slow to stop could be fatal

my art evades me

evolve, evolve

Who shall I write for today?

- July 6, 1985, A.D.

Poetry: 100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)

It's raining slow romantics

in a daytime nighttime anytime haze

you can rap the blues

if you wear soft shoes

because nothing beats the boredom better

than standing in the rain

and getter wetter

and you can dream of the day that you devolve

into a puddle

or a poet

or a soft, bouncy piece of rubber

as you know, we are all evolving into plastic

It's pouring slow romantics

nine days out of ten, they're out of sight

but when they kiss the sky,

they come dancing down

nice, he says,

an interesting concept

but then, it's never too late to become an obedient dog

don't you think?

- June 13, 1985, A.D.

Poetry: 100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)

Poetry:

100% pure beef

or vice-versa

raw:

she used to eat paper with expression

but

she was too young to get 

the punchline

rare:

a little brown on the edges

but chewy, and hard to digest

she tried the A-1 sauce,

but it dribbled over the sides

with determination,

she continued to cook

medium:

it was a cold January day

full of yearning

and desire

she was pushed over the edge --

she kept going

but still a little red on the inside

medium-well:

time for the barbeque sauce

remember, when in doubt,

always check the roots

abstract, cooking deep within the outer crust

beyond what can be seen

she continues

more slowly, now

more carefully

well done:

why,

thank you.

- May 26, 1985, A.D.

Pencil to Paper

Pencil to Paper

what a fantastic love affair

to give life to an object

to give meaning -

I lay my soul down for all to see

on this paper

each revealing line sends me skyward

Reader -

if for some reason I cannot love you

by day

if society prevents it

if my self-consciousness withholds me

take to heart these words

you have not been forgotten;

Pencil to paper

a polychromatic dream

to give hope to a wounded soul

to lay at rest your fears for a while;

You know me -

I'm the adventurer

basking in the sun of life

but I'm shipwrecked half the time

it's fascinating, but it scares me

come,

be my rescue team;

Pencil to paper

unfolds me like an origami swan

delicately, I am revealed

crease by crease,

I make myself known

to touch the light

instead of it touching me

to light the light

or, better yet, out-light it

that is my dream

Pencil to paper

is my reality

in mother's arms,

yet total rebellion;

a forgotten dream,

a lover's cry in the dark,

a sleepless night;

all the truth in the world lives

in my pencil to paper existence

- March 1, 1984, A.D.

Poems Call

a little voice from the back of my mind calls me

"put away the homework", it says

"write a poem instead."

I am so tempted!

but I must push on, I must push on

work first, poems later

every once in a while,

the voice comes back

and I sigh

and I force myself to ignore it

I take three deep breaths and turn back

to the textbook

but alas!

it's too much

poems call

and I come skipping after,

pencil in hand,

to conquer a new thought

so much for homework

but so much the better

- Jan. 11, 1984, A.D.