I’ve taken several extended breaks from writing latlely, and I’m having a hard time getting back into the swing of things. More specifically, I’m not able to sit down and write poems with the same flow and rhythm that I’ve become accustomed to. Freewriting has also been my go-to solution in such times, though I’ll admit the results are usually more coherent than this. No matter. I’m doing my best to show up at the blank page, inspiration or not.
I edited the following poem (despite appearances). I enjoy the strangeness of it, and perhaps you will, too.
Several months ago, I stood
beside your voice, which said,
“The veterinary meat of pork
builds the unstable foundation
of the Prufrock-sized hole in me.”
The visible bone of the city snakes
through the cement of my mind
and makes my secret life like a sun
spy and the type of person who returns
gifts and shoots the mall Santa for this hell.
I cannot remember what I was saying,
except I’m responsible for the hive mind
and the untimely separation of your soup.
Last week, I was kidnapped, but color
lights were beaten, and I got fish to bite.