Makes me wonder: What is the role of the poet in society or elsewhere? I really don’t have an answer to that question, I haven’t thought about it nearly at all. And I’m going to have to, if I want to monetize the career path in any mean. I mean to say, is it about something for yourself, or something for others? A mix? Fixing? Other things?
It’s hugely complicated and I’ll try to write an essay on it at some point, if just to (among other things) prove to myself that I can still write essays. =/
We’ll see. We’ll see how this all pans out. It’s so chaotic and worrisome I really have no idea what to expect. I hope you all survive the lens flare among other demons who partake in our juicing.
While Trespassing I Note the Sadness of Old Fences I write poems when I can, in late morning or during the afternoon, between chores but before dinner. And sometimes I duck through spaces void of wire barbs, and consider how to fill the incomplete, which words, what materials could repair those particular holes. I […]
What? I don’t get it. What’s sad about this poem and the fences in it? He cuts out a hole in one in his house so his dog can get through. He makes sure it can’t escape. Somehow this is sad? I don’t get it.