The pure simplicity

Hello hello hello! I'm back in NYC and have so many thoughts, ideas, and musings to share! I've got to save it for tomorrow though when I have more time to really sit down and gather it all up into a nice bundle.

For now though, here's a nice Mary Karr poem. I've always liked her and began to especially appreciate her last Spring when I heard her read at an NYU poetry gathering. I like the raw authenticity and vulnerability in her writing and her shameless bearing of the Self. Today she was on Studio 360 (guest-hosted by Alec Baldwin today, what?! Awesome) talking about her new memoir, The Liar's Club, and it got me re-reading a bunch of her stuff.

Enjoy and I promise to write a nice long post in the very near future! So so so much to toss onto the blog.


Limbo: Altered States

by Mary Karr

No sooner does the plane angle up
than I cork off to dream a bomb blast:
A fireball roiling through the cabin in slo-mo,
seat blown loose from its bolts,
I hang weightless a nanosecond
in blue space

then jerk awake to ordered rows.
And there’s the silver liquor cart jangling
its thousand bells, the perfect doses
of juniper gin and oak-flavored scotch
held by a rose-nailed hand.

I don’t miss drinking, don’t miss
driving into shit with more molecular density
than myself, nor the Mission Impossible
reruns I sat before, nor the dead
space inside only alcohol could fill and then
not even. But I miss

the aftermath, the pure simplicity:
mouth parched, head hissing static.
How little I asked of myself then—to suck
the next breath, suffer the next heave, live
till cocktail hour when I could mix
the next sickness.

I locked the bathroom door, sat
on the closed commode, shirtless,
in filmy underpants telling myself that death
could fit my grasp and be staved off
while in the smeary shaving glass,
I practiced the stillness of a soul
awaiting birth.

For the real that swarmed beyond the door
I was pure scorn, dead center of my stone and starless
universe, orbited by no one. Novitiate obliterate, Saint
Absence, Duchess of Naught . . .
A stinging ether folded me in mist.

Sometimes landing the head's pressure’s enormous.
When my plane tilts down, houses grow large, streets
lose their clear geometry. The leafy earth soon fills my portal,
and in the gray graveyard of cars, a stick figure
becomes my son in royal blue cap flapping his arms
as if to rise. Thank god for our place
in this forest of forms, for the gravitas
that draws me back to him, and for how lightly
lightly I touch down.

**************************

<3