in terms of actually writing every morning. But I slid into this morning sideways for some reason. Maybe the obscene ambush of last night’s poetry reading bothered me more than I’d like to admit.
Maybe it was just too much on top of the memory work I’ve been doing. Too much on top of the ranting of the Beat poets, and a day’s worth of everyone needing to have a say on something so few can speak authentically to?
I finished the exquisite corpse poem rubric last night. A grid with 1024 possible poems: permutations of 4 dramatic elements and 5 stories.
Snap, crackle, pop: the sounds of the wasps. And now on to the poem of erasure.
No essay today. At least… not now.