The poet tries
with her words
to create something new
something hitherto unconsidered,
unthought, unspoken
She rakes the dirt for language
that is inimitable and rare
Fighting her way out of
prosaic platitudes
Searching deliriously for
a sharp-edged jolt of ingenuity
that will
awaken and inflame
In this great pursuit of something
clever
to say,
she overcompensates,
birthing a few stanzas
of exaggerated hogwash that inspires
more dismay than satisfaction
Out the window
her poem goes
A little crumpled ball of melodrama
and stale cliché
Then the poet sits in silence
smoldering with displeasure
wanting nothing more than
to finally write something that
works
It is when, radiant with disappointment,
she relinquishes her fantasy of excellence
that the true
poem begins
With rosy wings and
eyes like screaming bullets
it sails forth to proclaim
to declare
to profess without apology
or contrition
the wildest truths of her
soul
It is out of this realm of
deflation and defeat that
true originality is bred
Just a murmur at first, just a glint,
but listen, listen as
it swells into an exquisite roar
and watch,
watch as it rises from
the decay of the past
to flare
in a new light

Oh, the wretched, damnable ache of growing older
of saying farewell to wild romps through the park
of turning these sunshine smudged days over to memory
of taking it all into my arms once more
before
letting  it
go
  completely
it’s a funny sort of pain
and I don’t much like
the way it pulls at my insides
an ulcer; stinging, perverse, present

years ago I longed to be
the age I am now
thought it would guarantee
confidence and joy

but now that I’m here
staring into the abyss
on the brink
of living
“my own life”
I’m paralyzed

perhaps that little girl
with the tender spirit and
brown eyes
who believed time would solve everything
was wrong

because now I would give
just about anything
to be in her place

I slip under with a cry
and am lost to the depths,
sinking ever deeper
into the blue
as though bound by
ball and chain

What I pass on my way down
is not glittering schools
of fish
or the benevolent
sea turtle,
but a circling, snarling
mob of responsibilities,
a sight more menacing
than even
the most cadaverous
shark

After a great deal of climbing
I reached the top
and paused to admire things from
that new place. The sky was
a trio of hues (halcyon dragging to
teal fading to slate) and the sun was
a great big bright thing
(inflamed, illuminated).
Inch by inch, I lifted my arms,
as if to embrace the gusts of wind
licking at my skin.
I tilted my face toward
the volcanic dazzle and
stood there a while, imbued with
ponderous joy. The longer I
remained, the more sure of
everything I became,
of the steady drumbeat of energy
pulsing in the dirt,
of the synergistic tangle of
death and life.
My scalp began to tingle with a
giddy, glowing sensation:
a breathless sort of reverence
I had never known.
Oh, what a life,
I thought
and took off down that hill with
arms out like airplane wings,
not caring what the neighbors
might think

The phalanges are connected
to the metacarpals,
the metacarpals are connected
to the ulna,
the ulna is connected
to the humerus…
and the heart
is connected
to pen and paper
in a way that defies
all logic

Sooner or later I'll have
to face the fact that
I'm not really good at anything
Yes, I dabble in writing
[the art of fashioning
buzzing thoughts into something
vaguely meaningful] and oh, I can make
the piano shout truths to the world
by hammering its keys and feeling
every palpitating sliver of love
and grief burst from my
callused fingertips
And yes, I can sneak candid
photographs of strangers laughing
or walking or dropping
their crumpled cellophane wrappers
into the street when they think
no one is watching
And here and there
I dance, twisting my
spine into contortions of human expression
wrestling with gravity until
my muscles spasm
and give out
flirting with the edges of my
endurance until I can't take it any more
and I go down,
gasping
But contrary to some people's
beliefs, this is not talent or skill
This is not mastery or ability
This is me stripping myself
down to the very essence of
my character
tearing the insecurities away like
an old Band-Aid
shoving my ugly fears into the light
before they can get the better of me
This is not vision or genius
This is a gloriously chaotic mess
of swirling thoughts and feelings
turned into something tangible
This is not art
This is just me playing with the raw
exhilaration
of being alive