Thursday, March 16, 2006

morrissey and I

Day three of not drinking: workshop in which my poem is awful. Too much, the workshop says. Too tight.

Sometimes the radio speaks to me. Free Falling, Silent All These Years...twice. You have to know California radio to know how rare this is. When I got in the car, turned on the engine, and heard Running Up that Hill, I said aloud, Are you kidding me?

If I only could make a deal with god, and get him to swap our places.

I feel brave and at the same time buffeted. Bruised. Gray on the outside. At twenty, I started to bruise easily. I have ideas and no language. I feel like sea foam spread by boots. I feel like I am wasting my life, ruining my poems because I wrote them.

If only you had written them--whoever you are. I would whisper to you how. I mess it up. I am not a good vessel, wound and wound and wound, too tight. I would be a better ghost. I would come to you in dreams, and you would wake thinking they were yours except for the long gold hair across your chest.

Oh, I wish I wish I wish I was born a man so I could learn how to stand up for myself.

I can't say anything without covering my mouth.

Lose control, the workshop says. Let go.


Day three of not drinking: after the reading, she comes up to me and says, Do you have a book? You have a book.

Yes, I say. No, I say. I don't know what to do, I want to say. I need your help, my eyes say.

I want to help you, her eyes say.

We walk away without speaking.