Folding Back

•
220/ folding back morning newsprint— he becomes aware of a fragment of kale lodging between molars; annoyed he sucks on his teeth —
•

Feeling apathy toward today’s tanka— it sits in front of me in an awkward pose, a child with an ugly expression on its face, intentionally distorting his once beautiful features into disagreement, out-right rebellion. Lately my whole attitude of writing falls into negation— that downward spiraling effect into self-criticism.

It comes down to this: the mundane nature of the poem irritates me. The scene succeeds in portraying a boring reality of the every-day-existence, producing an irritation, like the filament of kale itself. Yet, I find myself annoyed at the persona’s annoyance. An overwhelming ambivalence. When closing a poem I want to feel the closure as an experience. As taking off a winter coat— creating a feeling of carrying through of an action. Completion. Here, however …
•So I shaved last night— rather, this afternoon, time rests in an awkward presence in my head today, events fall out of order like a dropped deck of cards— but my point, my point is I feel colder, more aware of my countenance, my jawline— no longer exists the leathery resistance of whiskers. A new sense of buoyancy falls within every step.