Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet
I believed I could make it up, that will
was power, not in that greasy
philosophy-boy way but in the ancient sense
of generosity of making: a poem or a meal
or perhaps a practice (I like that, just flexing
Why do I keep returning
to that room, the scarred stone Buddha
above the radiator, desk and chair,
mirror of tarnished gilt and the rules
did not apply. It helped
that they were such small rules:
art and finance and the hum of the freeway
at the bottom of the hill. One window that opened.
One thing can be made. Or kept, for a while.
If it wasn’t something, it would be
something else. A doubling of cells. Lucky, lucky,
and eventually bad luck too (category: body.
category: money. category: middle-class
artists, global collapse, blow to the head: the tired usual,
highwire and the blessed net). And lucky
even out of that, wolf like a wind at the door.
About that doubling: We made a person,
anchor to the earth. Lucky boy.
So like I said you do the one step
tra-la see how it’s done and look up to find
you are being pulled by something bigger, the hand
of some giant clock, have in fact
lashed yourself to it with great joy. Signed on
for the journey
(and it split me open, made me pure triage:
will such a flimsy ticket)