Hungover like green-clipped grass, weeping, hemorrhagic dew. Like a hatchet, buried in pink dirt, for years. Most writers I hang with think writer’s block is a steaming pile of horse shit. This follows the well established at least write something rule.
Every semester, after reading Buk, students proclaim: “I could write that poem.”
I answer, “Go right ahead.”
I like how he announces he will capture the birds forever, and does.
Cranky dude usually. Lightens up here. I prefer neutral tones, and other poems.
A truly GREAT poem. And the title of this excellent collection embedded. Hmmm….The jay bouncing, playful, seems apt for this bird. Two takes on one hangover. Simply the crystallization of a moment, twice. One purpose of poetry.
Other “watching a bird” poems”? Anybody want to wade in? Is this like the moon, moon, moon for poets? They must include certain elements in every fucking poem?
Shut up like a snake in a shoe. Wait.
Astronaut loses tool bag. That’s cool. Except said tool bag is now traveling at maybe 22,000 miles per hour. So I guess getting hit by this tool bag in years later, while hanging out in space, might, well, suck. NASA tracks all of this, maybe 12,000 items now, orbital debris the nice name. Why I am blogging about this? Not sure. Fuck off.
This morning at 7 a.m. I was in the dark and cold woods. Flurries of snow spiraled about me. The trees yawned. I saw a fox squirrel the size of a Nerf football. I sat shivering and reading Into Thin Air (the book, not the article). The pages were hard to turn due to my bulky gloves.
I thought “Does reading about something very cold (Mt Everest) make me colder now?” If I was reading The Florida Keys by Joy Williams would I be warmer? What if I read a book about watermelons? Would I then feel the urge to spit a seed into the grass alongside my baby-baby Subaru?
I was nominated for a Pushcart. This made me feel less sad.