TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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On the first few days of December, I will imbibe dark beer, read Lemony Snicket's The Bad Beginning and maybe Linda Le's Slander /recommended by the fabulous Miss Mimi/ and run around the City, pursuing thrills cheap and dear /pinball, anyone?/ for something must prick me, something must remind me that the earth won't stay like this, stubbornly cold and tight, refusing to break soft and yielding beneath the fall of my dancing feet.
Yet last night I was pricked /skin flushed, breath caught/ by young poets whose tongues lit the room brilliant with a language like rose thorns and sewing needles, imagining an anger and a joy and a sorrow that could transform seemingly fallow earth, winter's realm.//
Can you stun rhyme and its reasons? Can you keep each poem still and quiescent, so that you could delight, selfishly, in each line, each curve, each sentiment? Poetry refuses to quell its limbs. Aroused and agitated, propelled by the search for what sounds/echoes/reverberates truth, poetry must move.