2011-06-07 - 12:54 p.m.
I've always assumed that poets, or prolific songwriters, write about what they're obsessed with, at the moment. Dylan wrote about one-eyed undertakers and ex-wives, while Mary Oliver writes about death and flowers. What I'm saying is that if I wrote poetry, right now I'd be writing about birds of prey, or maybe predators in general. I love hawks, I think. In the tradition of suddenly seeing something all the time once you've been made aware of it, now I see hawks. They are beside the roads out here in the county, circling above little city parks, soaring overhead on my bike rides. They see all and they are always hungry. And, the other night, I had a dream that I was camping and that a wolf appeared, teeth bared, snarling. So I snarled back, howling and kind of dancing, and that seemed to keep the wolf in check.
Oh, my, and bad news from back home. A guy I knew growing up, the best soccer player in the county, died. My dad says he drowned in a hotel hot tub. He was a very kind kid, always smiling. And he was very fast, could score goals at will, and was a decent baseball player. He was a good-times guy, a partyer who I once saw at a Frankfort High football game, inhaling butane fumes from a canister. But not long ago, he was scoring goals, stroking hard liners to left-center, sprinting around first base, red-faced. This forever business is hard to figure. It does not compute.
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