I wept all over a poet, I feel so low.
Humility is not what I am learning in my failure, whatever Derrick Brown has to say about it.
Driving from Flagstaff, Angela noted her falling heart and wondered whether mine stumbled, too? I told her it didn't. It wasn't until I reached Tucson that I realized what I've come back to: the thin, frail letter-head that holds such heavy news; the too many who thought it a waste to begin with. What a waste. I carried the letter with me all weekend. And those who won't want to listen, who will want to cover the raw hurt with reassurances. Fuck you and your reassurances. What I want is to be slapped and broken down like so many children's toys; burned, buried and otherwise shunned. I want my face pressed to the ground 'til I eat the roots of flowers. I might learn some poetry, then.
My mother bought me a gravy boat. It isn't a very good consolation prize, considering that I hate gravy.
What I hated most about the letter was my name in black, block print when the other words wore red. At the end they wrote, "Please contact us if you have any questions or concerns." I don't think it was sincerely written because they did not include a phone number. If I can work myself into a proper rage, I just might call them. I just might say,
"Yes, I have a question. I have a fucking concern."
And what would they say? Would they lie to me? Would they hold their breath and wait without a word until I hung up the phone? I'm not going to contact them. It was a wonderful weekend, afterall. I wept all over a poet and he hugged me awkwardly and told me that the music was too loud and said that he liked my pen, which was really Angela's. I ran away when he wasn't looking, because I felt suddenly embarrassed. He signed my book, "Kelly -- I wrote these poems for our tragic love affair." He was lovely, as older men often are.
Angela bought me a flavored chai which was much better than anything I've had before. We almost went to the library but wandered downtown instead. We talked all weekend because every moment needed to be filled; we haven't spent so much time together since we were teenagers. Did I mention that were wore high heels in the mosh pit? That wasn't a good idea and we stripped to the bare bottoms of our feet before the last encore. We were seven -- eight -- feet from the stage, and Saul Williams smiled at me when he saw me singing along. This was just before the second to last song when the band freaked out and climbed the speakers like spider monkeys. Awesome.
Trevor held me for an hour or more when I came home last night. I miss that -- being held so often.
Driving from Flagstaff, Angela noted her falling heart and wondered whether mine stumbled, too? I told her it didn't. It wasn't until I reached Tucson that I realized what I've come back to: the thin, frail letter-head that holds such heavy news; the too many who thought it a waste to begin with. What a waste. I carried the letter with me all weekend. And those who won't want to listen, who will want to cover the raw hurt with reassurances. Fuck you and your reassurances. What I want is to be slapped and broken down like so many children's toys; burned, buried and otherwise shunned. I want my face pressed to the ground 'til I eat the roots of flowers. I might learn some poetry, then.
My mother bought me a gravy boat. It isn't a very good consolation prize, considering that I hate gravy.
What I hated most about the letter was my name in black, block print when the other words wore red. At the end they wrote, "Please contact us if you have any questions or concerns." I don't think it was sincerely written because they did not include a phone number. If I can work myself into a proper rage, I just might call them. I just might say,
"Yes, I have a question. I have a fucking concern."
And what would they say? Would they lie to me? Would they hold their breath and wait without a word until I hung up the phone? I'm not going to contact them. It was a wonderful weekend, afterall. I wept all over a poet and he hugged me awkwardly and told me that the music was too loud and said that he liked my pen, which was really Angela's. I ran away when he wasn't looking, because I felt suddenly embarrassed. He signed my book, "Kelly -- I wrote these poems for our tragic love affair." He was lovely, as older men often are.
Angela bought me a flavored chai which was much better than anything I've had before. We almost went to the library but wandered downtown instead. We talked all weekend because every moment needed to be filled; we haven't spent so much time together since we were teenagers. Did I mention that were wore high heels in the mosh pit? That wasn't a good idea and we stripped to the bare bottoms of our feet before the last encore. We were seven -- eight -- feet from the stage, and Saul Williams smiled at me when he saw me singing along. This was just before the second to last song when the band freaked out and climbed the speakers like spider monkeys. Awesome.
Trevor held me for an hour or more when I came home last night. I miss that -- being held so often.