So, I impromptu read at an open mic on Sunday. It was the late-oughts last time someone got me on a mic where I wasn’t rabble-rousing or just stalling for time. I thought about my Kung Fu test when a board member asked me to do a form as though it was a poem where she could see the syntax. While I’ve been tracking both how I’ve been changing and staying the same, how interested I am in how it manifested still surprised me.
I’m also working on short essays about things I’ve seen this year. All the friends I’ve visited have asked for stories about the city. When I share what I’ve seen they ask why the hell I’m not writing. I think I’m finally tired of the question. We’ll see how editing goes, but I have 2020 stories and they’re co-mingling with everything else in meaningful ways. They won’t be journalistic pieces and that will be intentional.
In the spirit of all that, here’s the poem I performed without additional editing. Please enjoy the awkward Visola-isms. I’m going to imagine you participating in the first section. If you don’t, keep it to yourself and continue to poke me for more writing.
The Amorphous Grey Blob of the Forgotten
stand here.
just here.
your feet on the stage
hands on the mic
it’s a meditation.
Because it doesn’t always
have to be dismantling the ego.
Just here.
Tap your heart twice.
It’s still in your chest.
Protected.
Never trapped.
That rib you tried to give back.
This is where it belongs.
Breath in.
You’ve been in Hades.
Trying to join the
mass of forgotten souls.
Asked him to leave your grave alone.
Requested no stone.
No way
to be remembered
because you’re so tired.
You’ve inhaled
a particle
of every lost soul.
Your rib-cage is holding them
because you don’t belong here
and it’s time
to come back.
P.S. I promised to stop quoting music as the title, but I hope none of you believed me. Send requests for post cards and letters with your addresses. It’s time to re-up pen pals.
Visola Wurzer 