Dirty Tricks Squad

You really have to love what you’re doing in this life. Otherwise gravity will crush you. And I don’t mean love like people claim to love bacon. I mean you have to love it. Like when a child you adore digs his nails into your neck because you have to be the one to stop him from running into an object more solid than he is. The same child the next morning sees you emerge from sleep and wraps his arms around your legs like you’re the fourth most important person in the world. And that makes you the fourth most important person in the world. So you better watch your diet and get some exercise because that’s a lot of responsibility.

Poetry is hard, too. It hates 99.99% of the people who have ever tried to write it. It likes me, but not enough. Not enough to make me one of its chosen few. 

Love is a dirty trick. It keeps you on the path. Keeps you from careening into the aether. Pulls you back from some of the dark places you might have disappeared in. 

Getting old is hard. The pain. The dampening power of pain. A blanket of ice on your bones. 

This morning I was awakened early by my mind. It wanted to enjoy every second of this first brilliant day of Spring. But it didn’t consult my body, which is tired. Very tired. And sick. I’m struggling to remain happy and gracious because I really have looked forward to this day for many months. But I’m tired deep in my bones. And afield from a lot of the selfish desires I have for myself. 

I’m enjoying listening to R.E.M. I have a friend who is dying and making a record of it via social media. I also am dying, but more gradually, and my head is slightly fevered this early afternoon from the flu. I am partly here, and partly other places.

You have to love it or it will kill you. It will sniff you like a predator and sense your lack of commitment and it will devour you. I don’t suffer from any such commitment, but I fear I will be dissipated. I suspect I will be. Hopefully my dissipation will result in leaving the better parts of me behind in some form others can benefit from. I feel like I want to write poetry now.

I’ve decided to reclaim this blog from the scrap heap and make it a going concern. Here’s a poem.

Santa Sangre

In the poetry workshop
I learned to hide
My pen
Until the poem was worth
Writing in blood
The famous poet
Told the Yogi

Next time
Hide the poem
Was his reply