Poem 25: In Praise of the Greenland Frost Camel

For James Grinwis, upon news his book will be published.

Poems are hurtling from space,
unknown, darkly comic, incinerating
at the touch of atmosphere.
And we, Brontosauri, fix
our eyes upon the apocalypse.

Mussels, mayonaise and toast,
jazz saxophone in a moody
walk-up apartment on a sleepy
side street in a college town.
She says they look like genitals.

Gods named after Norse dogs
orbit across the wild sky,
black stick figures storm
the airport. Like the frost
camel, anything is possible.

I Got To 24

Well, November's out. I wrote 24 poems (plus one revision) in 30 days, six poems off the pace. I think I will continue writing, at least until I get to the 30 poems, if not longer. It was an interesting month. Someone asked me, "How do you find the time to write every day?" And I told them that I didn't have the time, really, that a lot of the poems were dashed off in 15 minutes or a half an hour, when I really should have been doing other things. But it did make me pay attention during the day, thinking about things that could make their way into poems. As I wrote many of the poems, I was aware that they were hasty, rushed, half-baked, drafts. Some poems I think have interesting things going on in them, but I pushed them to completion so that I could have a poem in a day, and then the next day, I moved on to the next poem. But I have 24 poems, and even if most of them could use some serious revision and some of them should just be buried, it has been a rewarding experience. I forced myself to find the time and sit down and write. I should make it a habit.