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This part is the hardest, the beginning. There are so many routes to take. I might write about a beautiful young woman I never met in Brussels, Belgium or opinions, these metal and some times rigid discs fleet and flow so I try not to carry too many at once. Usually six or seven. That seems enough to handle, to get me through the day its banters and miniature disasters. I find that swelling the pockets of my brain with too much of this currency drags my steps, slurs the gait of my thoughts like a jaded bar fly’s fiberglass advice about how not to sail astray. Here it is not so tough, toward the middle, where I have an idea of the end in sight. Some sprouting memories and thoughts I like to leave alone. They are the quiet fertilizer of my brain, the crickets stringing and frogs singing my thoughts, lulling me to soak my head in the mulch of pillow cloth. At times these ideas may string me like a marionette from the springy cushion of my full-size bed, like a half-naked superhero, rushing to save a blue ribbon book of lettuce from my consciousness’ vortex, and now we reach the end, where everything is concluded where things start to lighten up, the distance from here to lunch, perhaps a nap or even death is not so far. Clouds coalesce, negative and positive ions gather, a wispy dandelion seed of an image might just float from the diaphanous case enveloping my lumpy skull sponge’s sparking through fingers, onto pen and strike loose-leaf, where my study buddy’s contact info lies.
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2004-06-30 13:26:25
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 8.15385
Jacob, Welcome. I think you're new here. This should catapult you into the winners' circle here. Two points to make about that. I said, "should." The second is, I said "here." Not that the poem is not good, it is. Not exceptional, but it really stands out here with almost all i've recently - up there with Mr. Chapman's in my recent reading. Don Cribbs has a great one, and Rachel Spinoza too. Some of the best poems of the month make that circle. Often, they don't. Go figure. Anyway, I extend my laurel to you. And i'm very particular about my laurels. I mean, i may say nice things about most poems, but that's just blather. The good ones, i say i'm voting for, or it's one of the best i've read this month, or something in kind - I don't bestow my laurels with a mask on in a closet. Welcome again. Mark
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