All Good People (Your Move) by Yes

C likes yes. Maybe I have something to learn here. Wrote a rough sketch of a poem tonight about the contrast between the Chihuahua Desert and the high plains of Colorado. No, it was more about secrets and how language play and even poetry can be a charade to hide oneself from oneself, a mask if you will. Yes, it was about secrets and forgetting.

Ugh. Secrets. Forgetting. I could elaborate, but it seems best to try to write another poem.

Maybe in time the one I wrote can be tightened up a bit. The language of trauma is flat, I said before, and I think there's some plain-speech involved with the reality of violence. Poetry of Witness is what they call it I think, but it is poetry of trauma. In any case, I'd like to read some, but don't think I can. The poem as is gets a little prosy.

A bit tired of the angry polemics of politics everywhere. Yet, I remember the horror of injustice, but I wonder if people's obsessions about it are tied to their own issues.

We learn what we learn? In any case, I'm thinking about deleting all the previous posts again. Blogging is pretty much dead.

I submitted to Psychic Meatloaf. It sounded like an appropriate place. Glad to be rid of worrying where and how I publish, somewhat. The weirder the journal title, the better?