Carolee Bennett –> poet. artist. crankypants.
every horror movie has at least one moment of quiet, a maybe-we-can-let-our-guard-down-now scene, a sunrise that seems to end the carnage. trusting it is always a mistake. it’s temporary. even when the birds start chirping again at the end of the film and children return to the playgrounds, the blood bath’s not over.
i’m not the love poem girl. a man i dated recently, upon being introduced to my poems, asked, “do you have any where no one gets sawed in half?” in fact i do have one or two poems that qualify as affectionate and sweet, but my story is that they were moments of weakness, and i’m stickin’ to it.
it’s the thing that gives us momentum, right? that search for happiness. it’s what helps us change our lives. so we did it. we changed our lives. to the extreme. and then it takes us months and months to dare ask, are you happy? it’s a fair but dangerous question.
and so these reflections are related to my perception of loss and love how? i’m not sure. but they’re showing me something even if it’s only this: girl, stop demanding that everything have meaning. some things are only what they are: the crow, the sky, the office building.
and everything else?
a poet sees a pair of sneakers on the sidewalk. she writes about them, of course. right? *sigh.* not this poet. she takes a picture of them. she saves them for later.