Revealing Rebecca S...

Things are not going well. I wrote this early on, when things were still in motion, and the problem was alive. I sent it to the website run by Poets Against the War. I wrote it quickly, because I felt obligated. I forgot about it. When I did remember it, I remembered it was pretentious and poorly constructed.

With fallacious post-mortems blossoming on both continents, I dug it out, and found that it was not quite as poor as I recalled.

This is my blog, and I have undertaken an obligation (even if it is to no one but myself) that I will give my opinions, and show my work. As an opinion and a piece of work, if this is going to be eating up bandwidth anywhere, it should be here.


Sketch at the End of the Earth

I dreamt
I picked mushroom
clouds
from the sky

until I had so many
I needed a
collective noun.

A congregation.
A murder.
A religion.

Blooming like classical music,
rolling in on an easy tide.
This was as easy as an armchair,
a leather jacket,
or a pat belief.

You have painted
a three hundred and sixty
degree
impressionist painting,
unfolding all around me.

With soft edges
suggestions of truth
but nothing in it at the end.

And I dreamt
that there should be more left,
in the end,
than my shadow burned into the ground.