My friend Jack asked me to write a poem. I haven't written a poem in nearly 3 years, though this is the subject in which I supposedly have an advanced degree. I hate writing poems. I think I suck at it. Yes, you'd think this would have stopped me from getting a degree in this particular discipline, but no. I'm just that much of a masochist. Oh, yes, I am. However, I owe Jack a gift. And lucky for him, his request arrived when I was just exhausted enough, just pissed off enough and just giddy enough to think a linguistic improvisation was in order. And so, I'm posting it here. Forgive my continued poetic suckiness. This is for Jack:
An Improv: Prose Poem for Jack
You're stopping, mid-costume-change and it's you and a wifebeater. It's you and those damn black stilleto boots. It's you and a black thong and it's you thinkin' he'd like this better. But, though the sky could rain mud, it doesn't. September and its juices can't come soon enough and neither can I. Is that your skin? Skin bubbles and cracks, creakin' beneath those boots. This is what I've got left to give you.
Have I effectively proven my masochism now? Glass of wine didn't hurt, though.
5 comments:
Unfortunately, Blogger seems to have an allergy to the tab-key. There were some weird inserted caesurae in there. Oh, well.
I like the poem--you should think about posting one every once in a while--blogs are perfect for improvs.
ugh-- it's hasty, at best. I don't write poems anymore, so don't bet on it.
I wholeheartedly agree with jb. That's a grand idea, posting more poetry. Why not? You posit your feelings in many posts, even your movie reviews, and your writing has a definite lyrical quality. Conversely, I wholeheartedly disagree with you: You do not "suck" poetically. I've been telling you that for years. And as far as being demonstrably masochistic: poppycock. You treat yourself too well, in some wasy to the point of pampering yourself; and that, my dear, is no tendency of masochism. I, too, enjoy your poetry, and I enjoy you. I say, and I'm sure many of your friends and admirers will agree: Let's have some more o' them pomes, babe, you're much better than you give yourself credit for.
As I said to a friend recently: For me, writing is like having sex with the least suitable partner possible. Sure, I get off on it, but the crippling self-doubt and self-loathing that accompany it zap the fun right out of it. Why on earth would I want to torture myself in such a way? Regardless of public opinion, if I don't like doing it, why keep asking me to?
Still, thank you for the compliments. If only I were subject to flattery...
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