I Wrote a Beautiful Poem Yesterday
This is my first ever really nasty poem. I stared at the page for hours, because this is the poem that was there for me, and I didn't want to write it. I am a little bit afraid, based on the myth of light and dark being in balance, that there might be one of these inside me for every hopeful poem I have ever written.
I wrote a beautiful poem yesterday. Today I want to french-kiss a beautiful stranger, urinate on the card catalog, wander in and eat from other people's plates, walk down the sidewalk, stare everyone in the eyes, and never move over even an inch. Whatever it was yesterday that took my private pain and made it ring with truth, I want that thing writhing on the ground with a knife sticking out of of its eye socket. That part of me which wrote the turn, where light and hope were revealed as inseperable compainions to the desperate darkness, I want that guy strapped into a flaming convertible tumbling down a cliff while I laugh and laugh. In fact, I have a new poem about flowers and time and it is so beautiful until the last line so wrong and ruinous that all you want to do afterwards is go outside and break a promise and something made of glass.