(A prose poem)

Riddle me this, bat kids, my muse is drinking vintage 90’s music and I just finished writing a poem with the word “Nevermind.”

What music am I listening to?

This morning, it was “Try a Little Tenderness,” but if you’re gonna let the muse twist the dials you’d better be prepared for fast and furious flights through decades.

Last night, it was Hole along with other assorted half-forgotten Grunge goldens. I can’t remember who all/what all.

And the why?

No idea. LOL. I’ve just decided to start listening to my whims. Can’t age in reverse, that’s sure, but I can listen to life on shuffle.

I’m afraid I was rather incommunicado this morning to the caring coffee man as I tried to re-enter from orbit, pen running across my notebook like a rabbit being chased. But wait, I’m the feral word raccoon, right? Don’t mix metaphors or metas, friends.

If this sounds like stream of consciousness, that’s because it is. And if you can put your hand on your chest like Patrick Swayze put his hand on Baby’s chest in Dirty Dancing, you don’t need to know what it means, just move to it. Guh gunh, guh gunh.

Abrupt music shift to Swayze’s contribution to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack:  She’s Like the Wind. Gone too soon. Elbow on table, chin on fist, full tilt wistful: Do you think he was as shy as he seemed?

And Dirty Dancing was all the rage the year I graduated. Coincidence?

Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

This morning, I wrote what is probably the best poem I will ever write, and I can’t share it. Not with the person I wrote it about. Not with you.

It was a reply to someone who absolutely tries to control everything I do. What I wear, what I weigh, what I do for the monies, what I write, wants me to fit a role like I can be ordered from Ikea, some assembly required. Would absolutely send me a uniform if only I’d don it. Nothing I do, nothing I accomplish, nothing I attempt, will give me the sanitized strip of approval in their eyes, and I’m done trying.

I’ve tried. God help me, I have. But I don’t come with an Allen wrench and an instruction manual, so eff me. I have never had anything to offer, my heart, but me. If that’s not enough, if I’m too much, I’m afraid I don’t know where we go from here.

(This is not about anyone who lives in my house, btw. Just for the record.)

Writing the poem gave me almost peace. (This is not that poem. Just echoes of it.) For once I saw it was about them and not me. About how insecure and worthless they feel. And my heart bloomed, because dammit, I love you anyway, my poor jagged Venus fly trap. If only you’d let me. My heart and hearth are huge. I wish you knew that. But you will tell nobody this is your song. (Google it.)

Ok, come up for air now. That’s earnest, that’s too much. Confessional. Journalistic.

Hey, lady, didn’t you shred your journals without malice?

I did, all of them. (And I’m not sure, but I think I’m supposed to be offended that you called me lady unless it’s my title.)

But that doesn’t mean it didn’t all mean something to me.

Postscript: the music has shifted to Prince. 1984. Purple Rain is falling all over this post, and I am delighted.

P.S. This afternoon, hubby’s band takes over the barracks, (locals, set your phone to record from 1-3!) and while I’ve been known to hole up upstairs during practice—once even fielding a call from a former classmate who ran for president (true story, he’s writing a book and wanted tips; I wish he were president now)—I might decamp to the local uni and see what kind of trouble Poetry gets into on the road, even if I do have to kick that last sophomore eating lunch out of the coziest nook. If not, I’ll just look for the brightest corner of the building. All I need is my laptop and decent lighting.

Bring snacks. Or don’t. I’ll be writing either way.