From what distant star had he arrived with his diary of the damned? He came from the womb with his craft fully formed, his vocabulary and passions realized. Did Verlaine know this too, attempt a mercy-killing, before the fire of poems wrung itself exhausted from Rimbaud's limbs? Long after he abandoned stanzas and tropes, the wordsmiths left behind could not wrest themselves, nor did they want to. There is such a thing as too much knowing. L'enfant terriblé--but he was never a child, only and ever a poet.
Once there was a banker who mistook her life for a poem. She searched under staples and wrapped coins for metaphors. She looked for meaning and a reflection of herself in the eyes of her clients and co-workers. She longed so hard for something, anything really, to be there.
My Old Honda
It has become a giant purse or suitcase, a mishmash of wrappers and receipts, of books and boxes. Even my clothes are there: sports bras, high-heeled shoes, dresses I wear to the bank, dresses I shuck off for my lover. Items collect in my car and remain there until I reach for them and find the sweater or trousers missing.