Trent Reznor was my favorite artist
for a decade? Yet, have avoided
(successfully?) angst-laced twitterings
ever since high school—a good decade
and a half of poetic retirement between
those first few sheafs I’ve hidden away
and my later “adult” attempts, during
which time my one overwhelming
passion was...acting. Splice that and
you can get all kinds of ugly. But yet.
C’est moi. I could go scarcely a year
between stage roles, it was that heavy.
And I proclaim this poetic propensity
(now eleven years solid) more serious...
more passionate than anything previous?
It is for me, I state it fact, confidently, even
without adequate retrospect or elaboration.
I am a poet. Nevertheless, the fear exists
that I would drop it clear and walk on
to whatever is next. Well. I proclaim
poetry my career and yet make a
decent enough (relatively speaking)
salary as a moderately content office
cog. But, I do this for poetry, which,
after all, is anywhere and everywhere.
I am delusional and this is good. I might
add to this melange that cinema has also
been no small passion. I recall that
during the paltry Two Weeks Notice I
laughed all the way through it—a soft
spot for Hugh Grant and my cohort,
the only excuses I can offer; how he
(cohort) covered himself with his rain
coat and I slipped my arm underneath
and held onto his thumbs and fingers.
It was ecstasy for the first time in over
ten years (literal, and perhaps figurative,
but let the story of pills fall elsewhere).
This is how love can come from nowhere,
embarrassing love, true and irrational,
often up to no good, but also full of
passion, pleasure, and inordinate gravity.
How it remains a curious joy to parse over,
question, and relish for years to come.
