Filing briefs is nerve-wracking and sad. Had some good poem thoughts on the subway, and then found I had a notebook in which to write them, but no pen.
Tried my best to record it all once I got to work, with its near endless supply of pens.
Some random lines from my notebook:
"inebriate grin"
"did he just say 'libary'?"
"bones are interesting things."
Having some problems with Applies to Oranges, in that my drive to narrative only carries me so far . . . I like the structure of a narrative, on which to hang the poems, but plot escapes me, and I descend into layers of atmosphere. I kind of think, though, that if anything were to happen, it would ruin the story, which is really about paralysis, and ultimately, the inabilities (rather than the abilities) of language. Kind of funny to write 100 poems in order to tell the world it might as well not say anything at all -- or, rather, that what gets said is always something other than you wanted to say.
posted by Reen |link| 0 comments
