Establish a habit of Writing.
Researching – Writing – Revising – Publishing
Set aside time and get to a designated, physical space.
(chorus: a place I must climb to…)
Constrained by my imagination - I imagine
this time and space will descend upon me from the heavens
at the apex of a confluence
of small streams of storm-
water runoff
happening outside my backdoor,
and if I happen to be standing there
and available
it will propel me upward and I’ll soar,
I’ll coast ,
by calling out the common sense my new perspective allows.
They’ll call it Enlightenment because
no one else will see it the way I do
(chorus: must climb to…)
I wish Poetry would suffice.
Poetry will not pay the bills.
She sleeps ‘til noon, sits by the moon,
writes down what she wants to remember, what she knows she’ll forget
She can do that with
or without money,
so deep down
she doesn’t care about
money.
But I do.
And every night is a gamble
grinding my teeth to the nerve.
One side against the other
-Everything I have came with help
and I owe it to them
not to lose it.
–I do value my Poetry more than anything
and I do everything to keep her alive
Demands competing to capitalize on my attention
Deficit, I’ve got to balance
-Fit problems together like puzzle pieces of a whole picture
-Stuff tongue between teeth and remember not to bleed. save gnashing for dreaming
(chorus: the place you climb to…)
Rejoice!
Reflect:
When I write I dissociate, and I can’t do that if I have to hop in a Zoom. I became disheartened and paralyzed. It wasn’t just reading tarot. I wanted to wade into my special secret RCRA project, my butt-saving idea: write a one-pager about hazardous waste; secure my job and my income so Poetry can continue to bay at the moon in comfort. I hope Poetry appreciates my efforts, even if she forgot she hates camping on the streets.
Poetry isn’t allowed to write about waste. It’s for the suits only. Nobody cares what she says. She’s meant for the home. She’s meant for entertainment. She’s meant for bars. She’s meant for shows. She is superfluous to professional writing that outlines legal distinctions between solid waste and hazardous waste. Garbage Writing. What does Poetry know about waste. Trash. Hazardous Health Environments.
Realize:
Poetry is dissociation, dissociation is the process.
I mean, the freedom of my brain to come unhinged and dance to the Sacred Pulse. The dance must go undisturbed from start to end to fully form the thing that it is. This thing is beyond me— the truth just comes through me and it doesn’t matter if it’s the King of Pentacles or CFR Title 40. It’s Poetry if it means we are all in this together, just trying to get by joy.
My problem is that I can’t say this to my boss and excuse myself from the fabricated work environment (chorus: busywork to train for a task we are not authorized to perform…)
I must find another solution. Creative Dissociation requires a blocked off period of time — I will not eat or look at my phone when Poetry dances. I will be fully absorbed and fully disturbed if interrupted. Blocks of time like this exist every day but they are not predictable. They start and stop without warning, any moment. I cannot be jarred by this anymore. (chorus: summon the resilience of Joel and Mike and the Robot Friends on the Satellite of Love.)
Micky Sedota's Writing Portfolio 