Day 8 - Zuihitsu Day 2

I keep on keeping on. I think I'm a day behind now. I will post two poems tomorrow. Make up. Because I want to post during the day. But I've been getting home late. Because I'm so popular. Among poplars. I hang out with trees. I'm tired. I have weird jokes this late.

Here's another part of my zuihitsu. It's a journal essentially. Which is a thing i don't really keep. But then I fill up tons of moleskines with writing so what I am doing? I was thinking about this as I was writing this.


No World But This – Zuihitsu Day 2

If I never feared mortality,
if I never feared man or war
I could be a mountain, moving alive
time would spin away from me
all persons becoming cut flowers

~*~

I could sleep a century
I could keep a century alive
I could keep a country life
I could sleep a country’s life

~*~
I remember being young
saying things I thought were new,
as if I had peered into the world
and found a new vein of silver
thought that no one else had plumbed
I told a girlfriend that “Hate was not the opposite of Love,
but Indifference is.”
I was so impressed with myself
I told this to her Mom as well
and she nodded, a mother’s nod
to a toddler holding up an object
and saying, “red”, “ball”, “play”

later, I learned I was not new
I was walking in deep ruts of thought
I have not said anything original
yet

~*~
this mash? this bog of pulp and ink?
in Sunday School they told us to journal
but I chronicle nothing here, no day, no significance
I only write poetry and half poetry and bad awfulness
I will not ever call poetry
and sometimes dialogue between a fictional person or three
maybe a comedy bit I’m working out,
but a journal? can’t be

who would read this?
progeny? (I haven’t made any)
peers? I’d be mortified to show them

~*~
I’ve forgotten how to edit
my poems emerge as big as my life
1:1 scale
as I walk, sometimes I write I walk
uglier words hang on
like love handles, plantar’s warts, eczema
things I should treat, freeze off
but I get too caught up in sunsets
stare off and forget the form
between my hands
Or I’m busy digging for winter signs,
a raw November, where I will not rake again
this white page will snow over my mistakes
the rustling clauses beneath, of thoughts
broke off but wrote
but rote
but written
but rid of
I am sorry there is so much
for you to get through
sometimes I just keep castling
on top of this swamp
as deep as the walls are tall