Tuesday, December 14, 2010

the great communicator

The dissatisfaction is rampant in me lately. A part of it is the season, the early darkness and how artificial the joy we're supposed to be feeling is. Jesus month, everything on the History Channel is about Jesus. Every Lifetime movie is about a lost love returning in time for the holiday. Christmas music on the radio. Tinsel in every window. Joy fucking joy fucking joy. Meanwhile I'm broke, workless, hungry for something real. It exhausts me. I can't wait until this time of year is over. January 2, I await you as the wife of a whaler standing on the widow's walk. And here I steal the beginning of one of my own poems: You will return. Drop to the deck from a passing night, return sinewy, lovely. You who drove my heart's head underground

I suppose this is the season to write poetry thought the poet in me is ragged and tired of poetry. But the prose writer in me isn't fully wake either. I wrote a poem for Julian Assange last week and read it at the ACLU Freedoms of Expression II event. It wasn't my best work but it was an honest. It was short and to the point. My performance was the shortest out of the entire line-up, which I like. Always leave them wanting more, my mantra.

I love the title of this song by Sufjan Stevens. Did I Make You Cry on Christmas Day (Well You Deserved It)

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