My life stopped lending itself to poetry a few years ago. Or maybe it was the other way around, but I’ve either stopped feeling enough to write about it or I never did and manufactured my sadness in tiny factories that rose up all over my skin and had little neighborhoods form around them only to watch the industry fail and the buildings decompose and the neighborhood give way to violence and drug addicts and alleyways you don’t walk down even in the broadest light of day because some people just don’t give a fuck anymore. Yes, it must have been this way because I was absolutely sadder this past year than I ever have been before and the poetry just never came. I saw glimpses of it when I had dreams of daughters we never had crying for their mother to name them after a sad song they heard on the radio once or of times you muttered to me when I was half awake about how you saw pictures of us painted in vivid colors on a veranda in post-war Europe making love to the sound of silence after the bombs stopped. Read the rest of this entry »
