Anxious and scattered; words keep running away from me.
I need to write—and yes, need is the correct word.
A physical need, like that for air or water? No. But I feel it, physically, if I’m not doing the one thing I know I can do.
And then it builds, of course: I can’t pull my mind together, which means I can’t string words together, which exacerbates the entropy.
Chicken-egg-chicken—doesn’t matter which came first; my sternum contracts, regardless.
I wasn’t sure what to pick: a poem which reflects my skittering, or something to distract me from it. Picked up this one, then that, then came across this poem by Frank Bidart.
Not quite sure why I set this one aside; the poem itself seems incomplete to me, in need of one or two more goings-over to get it right.
And yet I set is aside, and yet I’m using it this week. Something is right about this.
Little Fugue
at birth you were handed a ticket
beneath every journey the ticket to this
journey in one direction
or say the body
is a conveyor belt, moving in one direction
slower or swifter than sight
at birth
you were handed a ticket, indecipherable
rectangle forgotten in your pocket
or say you stand upon a moving walkway
as if all you fear
is losing your
balance moving in one direction
beneath every journey the ticket to this
journey in one direction
AbsurdBeats 