This new line of poems is worthless. The idea is 100 pages a various approaches/form and the three pages I have will not do. They are poems and nothing else and that is all. They are like little potted plants. I could re-arrange them or intersperse the lines but they're still worthless.
There is nothing going on here but little poems. So what. There is nothing there that is anything other than these three pages of poem writing.
I have had a couple ideas for forms, but they too threaten to be just more potted plants. The kind that people pick up at the supermarket to add a bit of life and color. Water them or not there are plenty more where those came from. Oh yeah we can all be plant machines. Come and see and buy our little plants. Screw that.
So you know God is great, so you write four scripts that are distinct yet form a unified effort you have no need even to define and then here you are, a plant farm. So it's like, what the fuck. I mean, yeah I'm happy and grateful and all.
And the trap is, I can see the long work, but seeking insight or a breakthrough in so many words would be to ignite a short-term solution, a spark that I could not sustain. No, I do not want a breakthrough. Not for a 100 page poem. I need a notion that suits a slow heartbeat.
I think the lesson here is some admixture of completion and acceptance, pride - in the mirror, or behind the reflection. So I turn away to seek the lost sheep of the impossible poem. This is what I know. To turn away and face what only the words or marks I am capable of can comprehend. And in facing that emptiness as before to find the words and the form. In two dimensions, the box or block being the first sign of civilization, I suppose, of this sort of work having been accomplished.