... and I'm going to archive them here in this thread. A poem a day, regardless of weather or whether or boyfriends that don't work out or bad grades in school or kids that won't take my advice, or parrots that need cuddling. One poem a day, come hell or high water. In New Mexico, of course, the high water will never, ever happen, even though I live just a few hundred meters from the banks of the Rio Grande.
I've been having a writing dry spell, and I think writing 365 awful poems will pull me out of my malaise.
Poem for January 2
Poets and cancer take time, steal (t)it.
You think, you have, life with set mornings, afternoons, chosen evenings.
Stanza tsunami hits, then dry-locked land, dusty dance card filled with same partner over and over, over - smells like moth balls, steps on your feet.
We all have bad ass cell phrase but bodies eat it, spit it into waste and dissipated air.
May not be there one week from today - poets tend to be coy as ductal carcinoma in situ - but decisions, evaluation have been made.
I think about Plath-head-in-oven, wait on doctor's cold steel bed wearing panties and pink paper vest.
Pink journey: pink housecoats, ribbon sculpture, artwork lining walls, Pepto Bismol speculum.
Comforting? Political statement? Can't tell the meter from the phase. Pink isn't the color of my poem.
Breast cancer isn't my thing either though it apparently thinks it is.
Where do we get these wayward lovers?