I haven’t written in a while, partially because I’m sick, somewhat because I’m sad, and a little because I get fixated on an idea and can’t let it go until I pound it out on paper. While I’ve jotted down imagery and bits of a poem (hahaha — yes), I can’t seem to get where I need to go. So I sit, stew in the words and in the cloudiness of the writing.
And this morning, I woke crying. As I walked the dog, I cried. And as I made the coffee, I cried. Oh fuckit, I’m still crying. Sobriety has yielded vivid dreams and vivid dreams have yielded, well, sobbing in the morning? The result is more bad poetry, oh noetry:
Gray dawn takes its turn.
Wet faced, I measure the coffee into its filter.
Black grains, specks that I rub between fingertips
and watch them fall away into nothingness.
I’m collecting myself.
In my dream you smiled. Your sardonic grin
remains constant in the dreaming.
Throwing clothes onto the asphalt.
Under the tree in the backyard you’d said you were ready.