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5:52 p.m. - 2005-05-17
Poetry Rant
And whatever was that just beyond the horizon? I couldn't quite make it out. Struggling through each day, I tryied my best to eek out some sense of purpose. Daily, I would go to the library, combing through the shelves of poetry. Later, I would lie in the grass at the park, a stack of books for company. Dylan Thomas, Sylvia Plath, e e cummings. Seeing a bird's wing reaching impotently skyward after having been felled by a careless driver, I cried and wrote a poem. When the city sent a convoy of mean yellow trucks to rid our street of those huge, pesky trees, I cried and wrote a poem. "The day they murdered the trees, the city stunk of open graves and eucalyptus breath hung, ominous and sweet". I saw a drunk man dancing in the Plaza Olvera. I cried and wrote a poem. Fred would come home from his job as Circulation Manager at a local newspaper to find me slumped on the porch, strewn with the pink buds that fell poetically from one of the remaining trees ... crying and writing poetry. This he just did not get. All of my life, I have been told that, if anyone looks at me crosseyed, I am reduced to tears. The thing I have never quite understood is why anyone would ever feel the need to look at me crosseyed, especially knowing my proclivities. Unless the person happens to be Barbra Streisand or perhaps Marty Feldman, I tend to take it personally. And, while I am willing to consider this feedback, it is still all too subjective. Who's to say that those who find me a bit sensitive are not a bit insensitve? Checkmate. So poor Fred would lumber in after a tough day at work, looking forward to a hot meal, small talk and football. Instead, he would find his melancholy wife absorbed in ethereal daydreams and copious excuses for not defrosting the roast. I meant well. He meant well. But maybe not a match. I seriously did not know what to do with myself. I sulked and skulked and cried and did I mention that I wrote poetry? I became morbidly obessed with dead things lying in the road. Sparrows, the occasional squirrel, God forbid a cat or dog. It spoke to me of cruelty and injustice. Of desperation and abandonment. Alienation. Futility. Machine over nature. Repression. Suppression. Angst. Frustration. Useless rage. Mostly, I cried and wrote poetry.

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