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To Be a Loyalist
To write about writing –
In a way I feel almost burdened, almost backhanded.
Like Benedict Arnold caught in a maelstrom of his own shit,
And trying to pretend it does not stink.
As if it’s peppermint,
As if I’m perfect.
I guess if I were to write about writing,
I would write about language.
I would write about how words that feel bombastic,
That feel alien and slimy and inexorable and terrifying
Are wont to fill these lines;
Are wont to sing out.
How emotion feels dredged and pulled up
To the surface. How it
Spills over and boils and chokes.
How heartstrings twist and break
Releasing what only can be described as
Bliss uncalculated, fulfilling.
To write about writing –
I feel like a traitor, like a wimp,
Like I am an unfit to create a definition.
Yet to write about writing
Seems frenetic and liberating,
Like I’m different, like I’ve transformed.
