Writing Poetry Blues
Lots of thinking. The world has got me by my toe and I'm trying to shake off the anger and despair. This is all I got, a simple poem.
I keep feeling very frozen, stuck. So much I want to write but just seems so senseless. Death is everywhere and it seems it goes down nicely with coca-cola. I’ll return soon. For now, just drinking my wine and listening to this Outlandish tune for yore, over and over again. Catching up on my Hasidic reading, what I once studied feverishly. Catching up on regenerating my soul with peace instead of anger.
Writing Poetry Blues
Some nights I think
“what’s the use of it”,
console myself with
the thought that somehow
all this shit
sickness, sex and song
does matter
and that I’ll have
a few words cut from
this cardboard life
to show for it.
Then the morning
and I read the newspaper
about a man killed
from debris
falling from the space,
of 10,000 Bangladeshi’s
now bloated carcasses
courtesy of a monsoon
or
of a child
tossed from an overpass
onto the freeway below.
And it is all I can do
to get
one foot to follow the other
to rub two sticks together
and hide my tears
from a god undeserving
as these silly questions
I ask myself
some nights.
‘There must not be any exception to God’s commandment that it is always a sin to kill a person. It is not permitted to bear arms, for our only weapon is the truth.’ - Lactancius