for years, when i wrote, the words would smash into me and after i got them down i wanted nothing more than to share them for someone else to hear them to understand how otherworldly fantastic how they surely came winging in from the gods for years there was that but recently there is no one here to listen and it is a terrible sadness i don't allow myself to consider for what is worse than emptiness?
allow me to expound.
the people in my life who know me and my work no longer can listen as they once did. now there is the critical, as though they've forgotten their simple praise-full responses of the past. and it's not that i so much even want or need the praise now. it's just that i want their ears to hear to hear myself listening for them. and to the words from my mouth.
for instance, i just called my friend to read her a couple of the new poems. i told her i wanted no critique. and i received none. and still felt worse than i did before i called her. until i discovered a poem i'd forgotten i'd written. i read it to her and i didn't much care what she thought because i knew it was fantastic. so i must needs want approval. approbation.
but this poem. oh forget this stupid darkness the swamp grass has been shorn away for at some point i wrote a poem a really good poem and did not realize it was so good such is the brain turned in on itself very blind very stupid as though senseless for she cannot listen when she cannot hear.
so this book of God, the gods of the words the poems the poking the bread sponge of the universe to set it rising on the windowsill it's so hot outside ninety- four degrees will raise it to heaven. i must finish this thing. this is what i do what i've done why tarry forever?
summer is surely not helping. heat. i burn and my brain melts into rivers pooling at God's feet. and he laughs at me.