anna kiss
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anna kiss
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little boy makes darth vader sounds, the deep in and out of an iron lung he jumps and punches the air, tries to cram himself beneath the couch for an unknown cause. he shoves the plastic mask on baby brother who stumbles and removes it over and over without complaint. my mornings are pierced with whining, weeping, wooden blocks flung across rooms, running noses, sticky fingers, made-up songs in made-up languages, and these shoddy china-made facsimiles of fallen galactic warriors. writing poetry at the dining table with lukewarm coffee in an earthenware mug baby boy climbing up the table to meet me with wooden tool kit pieces, threatening to dunk them in my drink, i find this is a life. this is worth all of it this is the texture i sought, the extraordinary disguised as the mundane. this is what i wanted, what i want still. at times, this desire rises quickly into rage, when things don't go my way or hormones shift slightly. i sink into failing i let go and my frustrations pour out in awful, hurtful ways my words shouted and spitted are pitiful and pathetic my mood changes in ways i cannot predict or understand fully i lose control. i have not yet learned in my life how to embrace uncertainty or if it is a good thing to do so even. mostly i shrink in terror. i have lost sight of what was poetry and what was narrative. i seek to flay confusion, split it wide into knowing, but i flail and flounder and do not know and no insightful words come of it. posted by anna kiss @ 8/29/2006 10:23:00 PM |
8.29.2006  |
