Regular Poem: Ditch It

29 Jan

“Ditch the poetry blog,”
she says.
“Record an album of country-western covers of selections from The Messiah instead.”

“Ditch the vampire novel,”
she says.
“Write the gothic horror romance featuring the necrophilia we all deserve instead.”

They’re both
both right and wrong.

I trust them and don’t.

I write for myself,
whoever myself is at that moment.

And sometimes they like it,
and sometimes they don’t;

sometimes they suggest.

I like the feedback,
the attention,
the knowing
that they know.

But still
I will write what I write.
And I will like it
whether they suggest or not.

The trope of selling one’s soul
is so strange to me.

A soul is given.

There is no capitalistic transaction
in my experience.

There is no cost and benefit analysis.

One sins
gives
lets

is embarrassed later
is shamed later
regets.

A lot of anxiety is there
in the remembering.

One walks in the flesh.

One walks and walks
limping one moment,
speeding the next.

How does one sell what has already been given away?

I’m the class slut.
I desire men with good triceps,
women who dress like repressed morticians.
I satisfy myself haphazardly.

I am vocal,
loud,
obvious.

I’m the class slut
who in real life
gets laid very intermittently
and remains

unsatisfied.

If only someone would drag their fingers through my hair.
If only someone would–

I often think and don’t think.

Ditch this, ditch that.

One walks in the flesh.

One walks,
glides, runs;
as much as I want to be pious–

the Holy Spirit walks, glides, runs.

And yet here I am.

I want so much.
I remember so much.
And yet there is so little here.

Ditch this, ditch that.

I don’t know what I love.
I don’t know what loves me.

It ought to be easier.

But ought is ought
not should.

I ought to ditch a lot of things.
And I should
ditch more.

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