Titles Never Used to Stress Me Out

Still writing a poem a day. This probably shouldn't make me proud of myself, but it do. Oh, it do.

I'm re-learning that thing that writers say--that you have to show up for work. That you sit in front of the computer and it seems like there's nothing in the world to say. But if you stay there, something arrives. And the more often you show up, the more the gears get slick and efficient and ideas barrel down the conveyer belt more quickly.

Last night I wrote when I felt really bummed, and it made me feel better. The PhD sort of beat the theraputic reasons for writing out of me, but I remember them now. It wasn't like the sadness went anywhere, I just put it on the page, put it to work. And it abated. I went to sleep feeling better.

Here's what I made, influenced by some useful cutting from Sam, but without real line breaks yet:


Bowing to the Melting Countertop

A black cat sits on the doorstep. When I coo, it runs off. The molten center of the planet agrees I am a disappointment. A volcano yawns.

Somewhere a car wash burns down. An orchid bows to a melting countertop.

“It’s a snap,” insists a shiny ant. “Extend your crunchy pincers and take prey by the thorax.” But it’s a big ant, the rainforest sort, mouth like a tractor. I am small.

I make spaghetti and feel like a failure. Washing dishes, I tell myself I tried. I really tried.

The members of the jury outside my window shake their heads.