Creativity and I fuck like dogs and then break away. Follows me like a rich ghost and when ready, I turn around to face it. We look each other in the eyes and howl. Creativity slams its ghost head through mine again and again. A metronome migraine, a grandfather clock to the jaw. There is a painless paralysis. The world is white noise, the body dissipates. I become hands and hooded eyes, tapping at the keyboard, scrawling with a bad pen. Spelling corrections as we go, this is a dictation, a pulling from the cosmic soup of things. Creativity’s seed is a poison birthed from pen tip and tap tapping on the keyboard. Writing, the birthing, is a scream; a wild rip of journey and catastrophic whirl; a vicious tango on a dark rooftop.
“Don’t call me yours,” I said. “I don’t belong to you.”
“With me, not to me,” he said. “You belong with me, not to me.”
Selecting a Reader
—Ted Kooser, “Selecting a Reader” (via bookoasis)
First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
“For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned.” And she will.