A father's mind conjures up terror
that barely seems survivable.
Behind a varied door in his heart,
a flickering screen in a theater of fear
plays the latest scene for the demons
who work there sleepless and inspired.
You've often sat in the sticky seats
with them and watched the same piece
dozens of times without remembering
how you came here or why you stay.
On the screen is always the same child star.
Often you've walked back into the world
shining with ridiculous tears and ready
to walk out of your absurd job, go
hold your startled child, and walk
back across the vast circles of your heart.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
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Blog Archive
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2006
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April
(29)
- Poem
- The Man in Your Garden
- Giving up T.V.
- Jaw
- Habit
- The Coffeeshop's Last Week
- Lost Things
- Driving Tired at Night
- Ecdysis
- Work Routine
- The Imagination of Fathers
- Ugly Days
- ...But the Rent's Low
- Poems That Fail
- Creation
- Hometown
- Acceptance
- Losing the National Debate--A Consolation
- Responsibility
- One Man Down
- Influence
- The Workers Wait Out the Tornado
- Violence of Mind
- Love Note to Me, from Me
- Arguments at Work
- Morning, Early Spring
- Night
- Weather Change
- Routine
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April
(29)
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