1. right in my lifetime

    In the shower this morning,
    I stumbled.
    Slippery, my own righteousness.
    So uncomfortable to hold,
    irritating even, unpleasant.
    (no matter how good I get at it)

    It leaves me feeling squirmy and cruel,
    tinfoil, teeth-gnashing, flinchy.
    Unnatural. And way off.  
    Like hold a drowning
    baby octopus
    (of truth)
    in my palms,
    in the air,
    out of its watery sea home
    (and I *am* good at it)
    The sensation, irresisstible:
    slick frantic legs and tentacles,
    suckers all over my hands.
    I’m winning, he’s dying.

    My righteousness, it’s like that.
    That icky.
    That vain.
    Useless vain.
    So I let go.
    Let it go with my brain.
    Like living meditation:
    just keep it below the neck. 
    What’s next?
    The shower like rain.
    Rainy consciousness.
    Fresh. Down the drain.
    All new. Experience grips me.
    When I lean over the sink to brush my teeth
    there is an expression
    of joy in the shape of my collarbone.
    I see it, and it shows
    in my face.

    {this is a broken poem from summer 2011 that I can’t ever figure how to fix, but I can’t seem to let go either so…}

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  5. trixclibrarian reblogged this from trixclibrarian and added:
    cordeliagablewrites: asked a question today and my anwer reminded me of this: Help - this poem is broken but I can’t...
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