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You ask me about my strange poems—say, what’s the deal?

How can I write these poems? I will tell you, Rosalinda.

The situation must be real.

The whisper in the elevator,

The winter without her

After the messy encounter,

The way you measured the winter,

And then found her and loved her, hiding inside her anger.

All these things matter, Rosalinda.

Rosalinda, it’s not the poems. It’s do you actually feel,

And think, and forgive, everything that’s real?

Are they coming after you? What do you think of them? That’s the deal.

Do you have desires? Desires you cannot actually speak?

Never mind those. What is your diet? Do you think about thinking?

What is your opinion of their physique?

The poem’s argument should be two-sides-becoming-one.

The poem should be at least as beautiful as a mountain.

It’s better to be slightly deluded about what’s real,

And be happy and curious about what you feel,

Then to be obsessed with the bad, and share the bad.

The bad is not the point, Rosalinda. It’s okay to be pleasantly sad.

I will tell you why my poems make you feel the way you feel.

Experience. Rhyme. Observation. The situation must be real.

Rosalinda. Rosalinda. Let your thinking feel.

There’s nothing to invent, Rosalinda. What do you want?

The imagination is vast, but a little too vast.

It’s better to have a good memory—

And want to remember the past.

1 Comment

  1. Mary Angela Douglas said,

    February 9, 2019 at 11:04 am

    The absence of “thinking that feels” certainly has caused, continues to cause a good deal of suffering in the world on any level you can think of.

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