March 26 26 Where has she been?

 

Because – how do you explain that it is never inspiration that drives you to tell a story, but rather a combination of anger and clarity?
Valeria Luiselli

I have wanted to wake this place up for a long time now so I sat down in front of my pc this morning to type on (in?) a word document and my fingernails were too long. What kind of violinist lets their fingernails grow so long she can’t type? I rapped my own knuckles as my bow bent itself in shame then gave myself the manicure I promised to myself because my agoraphobia has become so strong and overpowering I lack the ability to drive myself to the lovely women who gave me such perfect manicures when I first moved here. Step one completed. I give myself a cheap gold star sticker.

I want to talk about writing from a place of anger and clarity. I haven’t wanted to write the anger part because it involves removing my skull and exposing all the wires the tangled terrified anxious angry mentally ill fat  mess I have hidden under the sheen of old woman wandering the forest alone in a beloved green green woods lalala-ing happy in her stupid housedress listening to Bach clickclacking the keyboard.

I thought anger burned too bright for me to be able to write ever again. I have felt guilt good pure catholic guilt for not showing up here. For not doing the thing I have always loved.

How can any thinking person not be angry right now or anxious or frightened? National Poetry Month is coming and I have signed up but I can’t stop thinking about the children hidden in the Monster’s private diary or children torn from their parents’ arms because of the color of their skin. Men murdering citizens in the street. Families who have lost their SNAP benefits for no reason whatever. Survivors of rape standing in front of those monuments still not being believed. What the awful fuck. Even tapping into this much anger makes my hands shake god I’m such a coward. Here is my attempt at a poem off the cuff so to speak even though it’s noon and I’m still in my Christmas jammies though they have been laundered.

I apologize to all of you whom I have let down here in this beloved space over the past few years. I’m going to do better. I'm not sure anyone reads here anymore. I'm not even sure I can leave a comment on my own blog.

Thank you Darklings you know who you are.

Pre-April poem #1

Archer

she said baking bread is a revolutionary act
yes if the bread is hard and small enough
to fit
my slingshot_________________________O

CRACK!!!

wary of my neighbors
are they followers of the cult
on their knees kisskiss kissing the boils
on the ass of the new religion?

or do they hiss
and spit do they fuck fuck fuck the police
a wooden spoon
makes a good weapon if you don’t
have flour
stir rocks with your hands
you're going to need them
make a noise in your bowl
make it a drum
pound it until you bleed
make a noise in your throat
growl learn to bark

children whimper in the dark
do you hear them DO YOU?
the news is everyevery goddamn where
what do you tell them what words
can begin to subscribe their fear

put rocks in their hands?
make them soldiers?
hide them in your closet?
talk about Jesus?

lullabies no longer work

I am not a pious bitch
I am a bitch with fire 
I want to be poison
an arrow shooting true
into the throat of the monster
howling from his stupid
throne