I wonder how many writers have the same disorder, where they share their bullshit so they can get enough pats on the back to sustain enough ego to keep writing what they really believe in. We share the mediocre, just enough to get a rise out of people, and never the treasure. Thats for the post-humous party. That's for the cloth bound. That's for years later when people have forgotten us entirely and we have grown accustomed to our new beards and disguises. I never share the work that I love most. I would have done well in Sophie's Choice. I know the children I love best. I hoard their foldable bodies in my drawers that no one sees. I rework my writings, with their lamb's wool, so many times, that they become frankensteins of their former selves; the edits could only be described as major surgeries.
The poems you see are just the gangly pre-teens of future refugees and guerrillas. They can barely stand on their eight toes that I have written for them.
I don't know why I let you believe that this is my writing. It must be some kind of psychological thing. Some kind of hope that I never knew I had. The hope that if I don't indulge your senses for long enough--feeding you thimbles, when the feast comes you will mistake it for salvation. Maybe you will forgive me with this confession: I am starving you, but I promise that the bank is growing fat so that when the oracle sends her message, you will eat like kings.
No comments:
Post a Comment