April 30, 2017KR BlogEnthusiamsWriting

To All The Failed Poems

A failed poem is a flying car that the poet herself would bet against, a free pass to tinker and woe. Say she gets electrocuted, slips on oil-slick. Say an explosion that blows out the last wall standing. Say the failed beloved looks like Waldo Waterman’s Aerobile, which never got off the ground, which might burst into flames {again} so you must invent other words for burning and crash and failure.

A failed poem seems at least twice daily upon the hour, eternity, tomorrow.

A failed poem is the damn cat who very well knows her name but won’t come when you call.

You were never enough for your failed poem, says the failed poem suddenly, just as you put down your pen, close your laptop, step outside the front door, ready to rejoin society.

A failed poem often and only calls at the most inconvenient times.

A failed poem promises, in a squeaky-clean come-hither from afar, that you get a car and you get a car and you get a car— as she drives away into the desert, in vanishing motorcade, in ghostly parade.

A failed poem tells you, my love don’t cost a thing.

A failed poem tells you, I’m just like you in real life.

A failed poem: when you’re already over it, when you block but can’t delete her number.

A failed poem has the gull to ask: is this really about me?

A failed poem has no table manners, has no license— to carry on like this— and bills you by the hour. A failed poem asks for top billing at that.

A failed poem has nothing to do with failure, you know that.

A failed poem, whispers the failed poem as you fall like stone to the crumpled sheets, is a brief interlude between light and nothing.

A failed poem is not nothing.

A failed poem is a flying car who works perfectly fine elsewhere.

Elsewhere, you’re the would-be, she whispers, and I’m really something else.