Sometimes it's a terrible forcefulness
that takes me and I want to write and
push it out of me
like trying to force out constipation
which obviously gives you hemorrhoids
which is why I might or might not
have an itch that comes and goes.
Then other times it's all rushing out of me
the great idea
but it's crap, we know it's crap,
we've seen it before, I think, but laud it
cause it's the the stuff that helps you loosen up
breathe and sit down on a sunny day
in front of the Potomac or Charles or the Hudson
and set by the trees and smell the balm, all moist and not much else
besides a bit relaxing.
Yes, walking and sitting. More and less motion.
That, they, release/s muscles, even
when it's bitterly cold, and
all you want is a face to leisurely look at
and warm by setting your hands--
your silly, cashmere-lined, leather-impulse-buy gloves you love--
on it, caress it briefly. Love is that
leisurely. At times yes, at times cold, at times.
I find that writing is almost best sudden
but also best when you're so barraged
by aimless particles that you're bound
to say something sickening or meaningful
or both--something that in the movies
only seems to happen after impulsive sex
with an Oh! and Mmm and Huhn
and so many other noises that imply
a desire to break out of that stupid square,
that stupid my life is the doldrums/a conundrum
and where is my latte and personal
soundtrack?; and then he/she says it
and comes a laugh or the camera
zooms slowly in: Look
I'm changed, I've done something So
this is sex/fucking/love--and what's
love again, yes or hot mistake?
Ah, yes and hot mistake.
So, in all, I agree with movies.
There you are. There she is.
If only she'd eye your crotch, if only
I could stop eyeing her breasts then mouth.
What's so vulgar? I think meditation is lovely in that
your mouth, in some way, controls it,
just like your arms are the gateway
into someone else's body, which, a case has been made,
is also the mouth's job. Yes, I agree with movies,
meditations on life, and, poetry aside,
a pen and paper are really lovely objects,
or no? So many of them, hand-made and otherwise.
A history of them wouldn't be so unwarranted.
Yes, the world is lovely indeed in spite of it all--
the boots you wear, the shoes I wore even
after the heavy snow warning
and the sweaters we dropped food on and the wine
(so sweet, a dessert wine, though I had more Malbec)
you spilled on the carpet--cream, like paper--
and after wiping it up you tilted your head up
and we looked at each other as if love were spilled
all over our shirts and you said, Yes,
so where the hell's the poem after this, mm?