Posted on Leave a comment

I can’t clean the window so I clean my glasses and look at the cumulus clouds

I can’t clean the window so I clean

my glasses and look at the cumulus clouds. I never

thought I’d write poems about the weather and certainly

not clouds, but I guess I never thought I’d be a poet,

even a poet who can’t remember the names of clouds

and has to look them up later. I remember I need to ask

someone something but in the middle of looking for some

piece of information that will help me do that I forget what

and who I need to ask. My Google calendar is full,

but that does not mean I lead a full life, though I might.

I forgot to log my hours. I still haven’t requested time

off for the summer because I don’t know where to go

or how. Aristophanes wrote a comedy about clouds

and Aeschylus imagines them as a chorus of nymphs–

the Nephelae–who comfort Prometheus chained to

a mountain crag. Or does Prometheus imagine them?

I’m grinding my teeth and holding my breath again,

do you do that? Aristophanes, Aeschylus and Euripides

all had beards. I’m reaching for my imaginative powers

but my unconscious is all spreadsheets and taxonomies

and information architectures–which are really just

complex outlines. But even a simple outline is a narrative,

and I’m one of those poets who thinks a bunch words

together is a narrative. Well, it is. This poem is a dream,

and in my dreams I open the door and a bird walks in and asks for food,

or there are birds under my bed that need help. Cixous

says that women, birds and drams are a portal to writing,

or maybe she says we’re a portal to hell but hell is

a good place to be if you’re a writer willing to think

differently about sex and aesthetics. Or desire and aesthetics.

What she means is that it’s good to be dirty. It’s good to be unclean.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *