Because arrogance and handholding don't mix.
I'm trying to decide whether to read poetry to my campers.
The Last Song
driving the freeway while
listening to Country and Western boys
sing about a broken heart
and the honkytonk blues,
it seems that things just don't work
most of the time
and when they do it will be for a
short time
only.
well, that's not news.
nothing's news.
it's the same old thing in
disguise.
only one thing comes without a
disguise and you only see it
once, or
maybe never.
like getting hit by a freight
train.
makes us realize that all our
moaning about long lost girls
in gingham dresses
is not so important
after
all.
It's not Chicken Soup for the Soul. a book which is publically demonized but whose influence is palpable nonetheless. But dear Charles Bukowski...I just don't know if you belong at 4-H camp. If you'd be welcomed. If I'd be welcomed back.
I have others, too. Ones about days, and people, and loving or complaining. Ones that make you say, "oh yes. walt whitman -- I totally get you." And isn't that part of what I want? To make mashed potatoes? Enough slices and dices and flying trips to foreign faces and you can eat them all day long.
It's late. I'm writing lists of "structured experiences." Lists of them. Hiearchical ones. Planning development. I drew a staircase. With arrows. 5 Days and they'll have thrown enough marshmallows and told enough colorcoded stories to earn some metal. A medal. Some mettle? Some meddle. Si, senor.
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I wrote one, too.
My grandmothers, the one
from the one side and
the other from the other,
want me to be in love.
The one, stocking-holed and
with barely healing bones caused, fought
by the adversaries: teetering black pumps
and her Oriental Rug. Between baby grands
She says, "Your skin looks good -- you must be in love.
So what's his name?"
The other, her brain-lost language
now past the loss of my name,
knows enough still to
grandmotherly advise. Between mindful swallows
She says "Some people, when they go to the places
that they plan to, enjoy going places with someone."
The one and the other and me. I would like to be whole when we are equal.
I would like, when looking talking liking is my life, between breaths to
say, "Look at us! I am not broken.
I'm not even tired."
and also
Pool (Puh-wel) Side
hot wet concrete
it scratches my skin
just enough to
make me feel connected
tan skinny thighs
conversation aside
shatter my hold
I slip from the grip
of the concrete
into cool blue
(things would be less scary
if you told me you needed me)
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because you need a secret life, I suppose? And there's really very little time.
emma!