But I was deceived by my appetite. Genre
as truth, or lie? Does it matter that one text was autopsy, the other
Gone With the Wind?
Rewrite one as the other, fiction as soul's autopsy, autopsy as
body's most explicit elegy. It matters who speaks, what their skin
is. The philosopher argued that we are most our “critical selves.”
A shoji
screen shields
us from what sings. One kitten to
each side, tan paper
shredded between them. The
father of the poet who died wrote
that he'd wasted his life. When
your critical self checks
out, take your drug and your
glass of wine. One last trip to pee and it's over. Essays end, but
poems ought not. Leave open, so you
can play with them like the
kitten his morning's cockroach. Last
I saw, it was upside down, legs in the air, brown armor against white
tile. To read is to rend or
repair.
--15
May 2015
1 comment:
Yep. And I'm glad to be around and listening during these discussions (and outrages) although somedays I just want to write. And here you are, doing both. I love the opening from "it matters who speaks" through that idea of our most "critical selves." Love the weaving of thoughts, things. And now I need a glass of wine.
Post a Comment