Really. It seems like everytime i get out (extract from the goo) a bit of poetry, i think, “Good night, it’s been 4 or 5 years since i’ve done any poetry.” Actually, it happens once or twice a year. I used to imagine poetry like a tea kettle that sings every so iften and one is obliged to put it on paper to make it shut up.

I did, for a while, come around to the idea of a bucket of nameless goo- you’re pretty sure there’s something worthwhile down there if you can dig it out and can stand the mess.

Well. A previous season of Lost has probably changed that again. We watched Sawyer dig a bullet, bare-handed, out of his shoulder. Bad medical info? Probably. The point is, poetry looks more like that kind of digging to me now.

Regardless of the analogy, when i look back on stuff i’ve written i usually say, “What the heck does that mean?”


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