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.