THE ROOT OF ALL FEARS
"Write about what scares you most."--Marsha Norman,
playwright
Call me Melisande.
"Who has hurt you?"
"Everyone, everyone."
(Oh for Christ's sake
shut up you insipid bitch.)
There is the same road
interminably landmarked
every day the same interminability
a perfect word for a life eaten by time
Thought: it is gone
there is nothing
no more words
no more heart for words
I would rather play with the cats
and walk the dog
than inflict myself on paper
whose only sin is to fall
not too far from the tree.
Fiddle, fiddle, but you did it
anyway, Marianne.
Suppose I really stopped. Like
quitting smoking last July. Can I?
Would that make me less of a
poseur than you might have been?
It was the worst of fears
("Ahime, oh God it's gone!"
now it is to accept
that I played for 16 years
less harmful than holding up
convenience stores
less harmful than some of what I did
a plentiful waste of time of day
a plentiful waste of time
Indolence is the inversion of desire--
who said this?
Maybe I did: God forgive us,
an original thought!
No, not likely.
The thought that writing
has been a way to fill boredom
that once unbored
once real life has taken over
then words are vain
perhaps unnecessary
Chasing after a publisher
a giant yawn
even reading the stuff
has become a great Who Cares
If I can't be you
then screw you.
I will ask God for happiness at last
and he will answer KMRJA.
Cold real voices:
you are mortal
your work is mediocre or worse
your time is limited
is this how you want to die
chasing your own lies and
a future that has long since become
everyone else's present?
Go home.
Listen to music
play it where you can
walk the dog
whose life is wholly
holy the present
let him teach me
let me learn the gratitude
of animals
the dog does not bite
he does not snap
he scoots across the floor
scratching his ass
life can be productive.
ktw/2-9-06
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