Friday, May 15, 2015


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:

Karen said...

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.