26 April 2008.
[Writing poems at a sustained pace like NaPoWriMo demands is so liberating. But can I carry this over to the rest of my writing life?]
Why I Made Out With You When You Discovered Me Crying in the Library Stacks
You’ve already seen me destroyed, like the night I raided your wine cellar
and liberated a bottle of cabernet and your signed copy of Bright Lights,
Big City and passed out on the porch swing. I was crying then too, but
you didn’t notice. Last night at dinner—everyone was at dinner—I watched
a couple just past the edge of our cataclysm talk their way through a first
date. They were shy and wholesome and everything we are not. Between us,
we’ve broken up at least half a dozen marriages. So what’s one more,
I think, as your palms settle on my streaked face, as your hands wind
into my crazed poet hair, as we kiss like a bad decision trying to be good
through sheer force of will. So what’s one more.