Evening Will Come

I love beauty in all its forms, innocence and decay, filth and jewels. Sometimes I write muttering mumbo jumbo for beauty.
My history with writing is a history with failure. Not elegant aesthetic failure, but fuck-up-failure like I have detention for life. I never got good at affecting the blank expression of truly contemporary beauty.
These circumstances make me tragic and solipsistic. I’ll wait until I get voted off of the island, but until then I’ll continue to make.
I live like a bourgeois and save my radical for art. I’m scared of my childhood, radical in its ugliness and its flux.
That was one un-enchanted childhood, yet I lived mostly in my imagination, so much is not faithfully recorded but rather made strange or grotesque in memory colored by imagination.
I am not a journalist.
That childhood is why I am a poet. I planned to chronicle it. I planned to make it cautionary and gut.
From my notebook: I cannot imagine a sense of self that doesn’t integrate all of the qualities my parents possess. Instead I buried it in smoke and the clay of metaphor and everyone confused it with static.
I want my problems to be Wallace Stevens, but they’re Anne Sexton.
I’ll tell you one story: Broken, then put back together with soap.
A woman on a book review site calls me a bad mother, both disappointing and satisfying, as her description meant that I had portrayed myself accurately.
Her review requires her to reach for dichotomy, and I hope to always fall towards the problematic end because it’s the truest.
I’m the Shitty Parent, I’m a Shitty Parent. I write my reparations but don’t back off from the art. I’ll be the one that teaches my children about complicated people.