Some days there's this sort of sleep state that settles inside of me. It's hard to get moving, even though I have the best of intentions. Maybe it's spending time alone, or not planning to do anything except write that pushes me into this space.
I played a show at the VAC yesterday with the wonderful Sun Blood Stories, Dogbreth and Diners. (Tartufi broke down in Nevada.) I want to thank everyone that came out even though Tartufi didn't play! While I was playing drums I kept having the dorkiest thoughts ever: Wow, I can play drums; It's so cool what my body can do; WEEEEEEE! etc.
I guess the reason I bring this up is because I want to feel this way about writing again. There's something almost transcendental about playing the drums for me. I don't have to worry about what I look like because I've accepted that I'm going to get SWEATY. All I can do is disappear into what I'm playing and have a good time--let my limbs express my feelings, blarghyblah.
So now I've got to let my writing express whatever the hell I want it to.
And with that, here's a poem I wrote/revised/reworked and I feel is sort of ready to be posted:
TO BE FEMALE
I dreamt I read my
poems all wrong. Instead of anemones they were tigers instead of red frilly
hearts they were dripping smoked lungs they were poison tipped horns they were
purple, spray painting train cars they were ultrasounds.
They multiplied in
that dream spot they took on human qualities: this one a face of tanned leather
this one hoarded kitchen appliances in its left palm this one a drunk an
anxious traveler watch your drink watch your knife watch your girl leave you
this one holds a
citrine coffee mug and picks out hips & collarbones
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