PORTLAND
The library is well lit but a fog (here I need a word for how light is caught up in the fog and fills it, makes everything illuminated but dark) the light. The books push in. Clouds gather. Rain. Lightning but no thunder. You work through the wet but the poems words grow. You plant half phrased lines into the desktop. Nothing. Wild flowers push up from the scattered papers at the edges of the desk. A tree has rooted into your laptop plowing the keys so they rest at odd angles like slabs of disheveled sidewalk. You become convinced there is no other world but this. You knock your things onto the floor, you kick your chair. Then you put them back, sit down. You think of your dad telling you God is here, shining out from that computer screen. God has given you another way to connect. You usually laugh at what your dad says in your poems. You’re jealous, he must not feel as alone as you do now. A breeze pushes through the window, stirs the fog and the papers, assures you that you have forgotten the land, that if you were the person you pretend to be
you would walk out of here, follow an electric line
out into the mountains felling the power poles as you go.
2 responses so far ↓
1 Natalie // Mar 13, 2008 at 6:46 am
no, i like this one the best. oh god the fucking reed college library. how it made me want to knock things over and kick my chair! the boredom, the lack of inspiration. have you noticed though that sometimes the more boring life is, the easier it is to write? and the more that’s going on, the more life feels like a poem, the harder it is to write that poem down? WEIRD.
2 mackenzie // Apr 13, 2008 at 4:17 pm
PORTLAND
The library is well lit but a fog (here I need a word for how the light is caught up by the mist, how the vapor is illuminated but dark) the light. The books push in. Clouds gather. Rain. Thunder but no lightning. You work through the wet but the words don’t grow. You plant half phrased lines into the desktop. Nothing. Wildflowers push up from the scattered papers at the edges of the desk. A tree has rooted into your laptop and plowed the keys so that they lay at odd angles like slabs of disheveled sidewalk. You become convinced there is no other world but this. You get up, push your things onto the floor, knock over your chair. Then you place them back, stand up your chair again and sit. You think of your dad telling you God is here, shining out from that computer screen. You usually laugh at what your dad says in your poems. He must not feel as alone as you do now. A breeze pushes through the window, stirs the fog and the papers, assures you that you have forgotten the land, that if you were the person you pretend to be
you would walk out of here, follow an electric line
out into the mountains felling the power poles one by one.
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