infantilus

not to be wildly original, but it's like banging my head against a wall--i lose patience--i doubt i ever had much patience...

i keep making this joke to myself about the spiritual center of whatever i happen to be doing: taking the guard petals off a rose, or making some bizarre arrangement, or, you know, getting dressed, but it seems to me that, a., i don't know shit from poetry, that if someone smeared shit onto the web and then found a way for it to be fired directly into your toilet i might say, hey, that's poetry, cuz the author said it was, and b., nobody wants to help me with it. it's possible, entirely so, that i'd shun their help if they did attempt it--that is, i hope i'd be strong enough to do so. but the desire for validation is so strong that i might pull a niedecker and...
what, end up being my favorite poet ever?

it just feels like i'm making nothing out of nothing, which ought to be super simple but instead gets caught somewhere in theseus' local habitation and a name--shakespeare at least sees the poetic "process" (okay, in my case, that's a serious laugh) as a linear one.

fledgling, unfocused, super-stupid, and not knowing where to go for help. i'm like a pregnant '50's teenager. send me to bahama and stick a coat hanger up my uterus.