The professor, George Kalamaras, is someone I wish I could have as like a poetry version of a life coach. Shouldn't there be such a thing? Shouldn't we all have a poetry life coach in our lives that we can touch base with, a person to call at 3AM when you can't write because you're too happy? I wonder how much that would cost.
The last class I had with a workshop in was a creative non-fiction class where your peers would be critiquing your 4,000 word essays, and it could be uncomfortable at times. But poetry is condensed language, and I'm finding that workshop in this current class provides me with condensed anxiety. Maybe anxiety isn't the right word, but it's not far off.
So far, of the five or six poems I've assembled, I think I like two. Of those two, only one probably deserves to be liked. I'm spending today trying to mess with a poem for Monday. It's okay. It starts out clunky, but that doesn't bother me yet.
There is a currency in this town
in a lack of information.
We dole it from card catalogs
rescued out of the old library
while it was being forgotten.
We traffic in this stuff,
where the weird neighbors live,
how garden hoses left under the snow
carry ice to your bathtub,
and who moved your great aunt
from the assisted living center
during the Alzheimer’s wedding.
She was just starting to like it there.
This week, the suicidal teen
gives his mom three hundred dollars
so she can buy a car he won’t worry about.
He asks only for the van in the drive.
Maybe he can get something for it
before she forgets and lets
his brother drive it into the river.