That’s not a bad thing. In fact, given the state of the world, I would choose nothing over Putin being in Alaska or President 47 invading Greenland or J. D. Vance trying to repeal the 19th Amendment. Nothing is healthy. Allows me to fall asleep easily.
Sharon Olds writes about putting her son to bed . . .
My Son the Man
by: Sharon Olds
the way Houdini would expand his body
while people were putting him in chains. It seems
no time since I would help him to put on his sleeper,
guide his calves into the shadowy interior,
zip him up and toss him up and
catch his weight. I cannot imagine him
no longer a child, and I know I must get ready,
get over my fear of men now my son
is going to be one. This was not
what I had in mind when he pressed up through me like a
sealed trunk through the ice of the Hudson,
snapped the padlock, unsnaked the chains,
appeared in my arms. Now he looks at me
the way Houdini studied a box
to learn the way out, then smiled and let himself be manacled.
There are going to be no magic tricks with this post. Nothing happened today. Period.
I did lead a Zoom poetry workshop this evening, based on the poems of Charles Bukowski. I’ve been doing a deep dive into his poetry this month, and, as always happens, my writing has taken on some of Bukowski’s signature literary moves.
Here is Saint Marty’s poem about nothing tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Spend ten minutes meditating on the quote by Wallace Steven’s, “The Poet is the priest of the invisible.”. When you open your eyes, write down the words and images that came to you. Now write a poem using those images.
Eating Pizza While Writing a Poem: A Prayer
by: Martin Achatz
The poet is the priest of the invisible
wrote Wallace Stevens, which doesn’t
surprise me because I hardly ever
understand the bastard’s poems
anyway, and I’m kicking myself
in the balls for starting this poem
with his words, and I’m also
kicking myself in the balls for
eating pizza while scribbling
in my journal because my fingers
are all greasy and spotting up
the page, plus I just dripped
tomato sauce, and it now looks
like the paper is wounded.
I guess I’m trying to tell you
to order Mexican or Thai
for dinner next time.
A-fucking-men.
🤮
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