I Am a Writer But Feel So Much Like Rip Van Winkle
This poem on the desk, I call "Rip Van Winkle.
" Each time I conk at my desk, the entire room Changes.
The picture of my son On his BMX bike - stolen, See? The print of my wife has been Replaced with one of her mother; Why she would give me a picture Of her mother for my desk, I do not know.
She calls me For dinner just when the muse Has revealed to me only half Of the poem, as if I were Coleridge Trying to jot on paper the gift Of a lifetime, a payoff for years Of whiteout in front of the Microsoft Word for Windows screen; I Expect this poem to be the one.
You start writing, tell yourself, "This Winter I'll write it," And in January, after the Holiday Rush, you write, determined to just Say what's on your mind, yay Or nay; but the piece just reminds You of why you don't finish; Adding the detail, the polish, is The impossibility.
But now The wife's left me alone and I got Freedom.
I live like a true poet, Drain all the black bile left in my veins Without interruption.
But here, I dozed off a moment ago gazing At this sheet I just printed, and I find A red liquid dripping like tears Along the page.
I'm certain She's come in here and not chosen To awaken me.
She is really awnery When it comes to me taking a small Amount of time for myself.
I tell her "At least I'm not out shooting up the town or picking up whores;" she just sighs and picks up the dirty dishes; each time I see her, she's wearing a new set of clothes, and how often she changes her hair is awful.
I wonder how much these things are costing me.
Of course she said she had to take a job; I don't know if that's started yet.
When I seen her last she had teardrops In her eyes.
I didn't ask for a reason; I didn't want to get off on a tangent.
This poem has got to work, and for it To work I must work.
So she left, Still sniffing, and I ate the dinner she gave Me and strained for a couple more lines, "just one, two more lines, please," I prayed, scribbling a few notes on the printout, but time has a way of tiring you out, especially when the shape of the poem won't come To you, so I snored off again.
When I awoke, my poem was smudged where It looked like ice cold fingers touched it I tell you I wrote this poem using blood For ink, so I wasn't too pleased she Would bother my work while I slept.
Each word on this poem had an icicle hanging On it, not a clear icicle, but scarlet red, Bleeding on the page.
And it was set In stone.
The whole sheet looked As if her cold breath froze it in place; To me it seems like a halfhearted attempt To stop time, mixing her red ink into my black Ink, my own discouraging blood, then Freezing it with her cold breath so time Wouldn't take me away from her.
Always with the dramatics.
I have though Shut myself in for a long time, determined to finish "Rip Van Winkle," and drop it in the mail so I can go on with my life.
That's what she says, you know, "You need to get on with your life.
" She really can be a drama queen about such things as time, how you spend it; I tell her "There's always the coast this weekend," or, "We'll get away this Tuesday," and I do expect we will.
I guess the wife's new job is going well.
Her mother came in and served me dinner Tonight.
She is quite an experienced cook, But she seems to be cross with me whenever She comes in.
She does just as the wife did, Takes the plates out, sets my books down On the floor and tells me to keep them straight.
I asked her what kind of job the wife had But she just grunted and said, "if you got out More often then maybe you'd know.
" I got tired of dealing with the old lady, so Figuring that the wife would come in late From her job, I left a note for her Next to the poem on the desk.
It said "Why do you send your mother in all the time? Drop in sometime and see me.
" I taped it To the monitor and drifted off.
When I awoke The note was gone, but another note set In its place.
It was from the wife; she had Written it on an old yellowing recycled Piece of paper.
It said, "My mother died Twenty years ago," which startled me.
I wondered Could I have made a mistake? I mused Over the problem, then decided to confront The imposter, whoever she was.
God knows That I'd eaten all she brought me and I might Have been poisoned.
So I waited behind The door one night as I heard her coming, And when the door opened I jumped out From behind the door and yelled, "Who Are you?" I grabbed her by the collar and shook Till she dropped the plate of food, and she said, "If you don't know, old man, then I'd hate to be the one to tell you!" And tears streamed down her face as she ran off.
I cackled down the hall after her with the scariest voice I could and turned back to the computer.
Her tears were still on the manuscript, But now they seemed to soak the yellowing Paper, so I looked at the cheap yellowing Sheet and studied its surface.
The whole paper Had been soaked as if someone stood over It reading it and weeping salt tears on it, Not just one night but a thousand nights.
The ink Blurred so much I could hardly read it.
This Didn't make much sense.
I crinkled it up, ready To toss it into the garbage and print a new copy When I noticed a stack of papers in the recycle bin.
I picked the pile up and thumbed through them Only to get the shock of my life.
There were At least a hundred copies of my poem in that pile And each one was yellow and soaked with tears.
Some of the ones on the bottom of the pile Looked fifty years old and crumbled in my hand.
I was afraid to look at the newspaper that lay In the recycle bin, afraid to even look at the Calendar on the wall.
I had the feeling a tragedy Had occurred, but I didn't have time to deal With it at that point, so I studied the poem For a quick rewrite.
Before I slept again I Examined several of the other sheets that were In the pile.
Many of the ones at the bottom Of the pile had cute little notes on them to me Like, "Honey, just two more days till we celebrate," And, "Hon, please put it down and come out.
" I decided I had truly neglected her and should Patch things up with her.
So I wrote before I went to sleep, "Come to me In the productive hours and we'll do this work As a team.
" And my head nodded after I ate The dinner she has left me.
When I awoke In the cold a little after midnight, the mist Still hovering over the wintry white sky, And like rivers her blood runs the page, an ink Of red that Her bright red blood traces my letters Together we run on the wintry page; It's as if we'd taken up a winter sport.
But The sticky note puzzles me that is stuck Onto the white slope; it says, "It's night, and The days of production are over.
"
" Each time I conk at my desk, the entire room Changes.
The picture of my son On his BMX bike - stolen, See? The print of my wife has been Replaced with one of her mother; Why she would give me a picture Of her mother for my desk, I do not know.
She calls me For dinner just when the muse Has revealed to me only half Of the poem, as if I were Coleridge Trying to jot on paper the gift Of a lifetime, a payoff for years Of whiteout in front of the Microsoft Word for Windows screen; I Expect this poem to be the one.
You start writing, tell yourself, "This Winter I'll write it," And in January, after the Holiday Rush, you write, determined to just Say what's on your mind, yay Or nay; but the piece just reminds You of why you don't finish; Adding the detail, the polish, is The impossibility.
But now The wife's left me alone and I got Freedom.
I live like a true poet, Drain all the black bile left in my veins Without interruption.
But here, I dozed off a moment ago gazing At this sheet I just printed, and I find A red liquid dripping like tears Along the page.
I'm certain She's come in here and not chosen To awaken me.
She is really awnery When it comes to me taking a small Amount of time for myself.
I tell her "At least I'm not out shooting up the town or picking up whores;" she just sighs and picks up the dirty dishes; each time I see her, she's wearing a new set of clothes, and how often she changes her hair is awful.
I wonder how much these things are costing me.
Of course she said she had to take a job; I don't know if that's started yet.
When I seen her last she had teardrops In her eyes.
I didn't ask for a reason; I didn't want to get off on a tangent.
This poem has got to work, and for it To work I must work.
So she left, Still sniffing, and I ate the dinner she gave Me and strained for a couple more lines, "just one, two more lines, please," I prayed, scribbling a few notes on the printout, but time has a way of tiring you out, especially when the shape of the poem won't come To you, so I snored off again.
When I awoke, my poem was smudged where It looked like ice cold fingers touched it I tell you I wrote this poem using blood For ink, so I wasn't too pleased she Would bother my work while I slept.
Each word on this poem had an icicle hanging On it, not a clear icicle, but scarlet red, Bleeding on the page.
And it was set In stone.
The whole sheet looked As if her cold breath froze it in place; To me it seems like a halfhearted attempt To stop time, mixing her red ink into my black Ink, my own discouraging blood, then Freezing it with her cold breath so time Wouldn't take me away from her.
Always with the dramatics.
I have though Shut myself in for a long time, determined to finish "Rip Van Winkle," and drop it in the mail so I can go on with my life.
That's what she says, you know, "You need to get on with your life.
" She really can be a drama queen about such things as time, how you spend it; I tell her "There's always the coast this weekend," or, "We'll get away this Tuesday," and I do expect we will.
I guess the wife's new job is going well.
Her mother came in and served me dinner Tonight.
She is quite an experienced cook, But she seems to be cross with me whenever She comes in.
She does just as the wife did, Takes the plates out, sets my books down On the floor and tells me to keep them straight.
I asked her what kind of job the wife had But she just grunted and said, "if you got out More often then maybe you'd know.
" I got tired of dealing with the old lady, so Figuring that the wife would come in late From her job, I left a note for her Next to the poem on the desk.
It said "Why do you send your mother in all the time? Drop in sometime and see me.
" I taped it To the monitor and drifted off.
When I awoke The note was gone, but another note set In its place.
It was from the wife; she had Written it on an old yellowing recycled Piece of paper.
It said, "My mother died Twenty years ago," which startled me.
I wondered Could I have made a mistake? I mused Over the problem, then decided to confront The imposter, whoever she was.
God knows That I'd eaten all she brought me and I might Have been poisoned.
So I waited behind The door one night as I heard her coming, And when the door opened I jumped out From behind the door and yelled, "Who Are you?" I grabbed her by the collar and shook Till she dropped the plate of food, and she said, "If you don't know, old man, then I'd hate to be the one to tell you!" And tears streamed down her face as she ran off.
I cackled down the hall after her with the scariest voice I could and turned back to the computer.
Her tears were still on the manuscript, But now they seemed to soak the yellowing Paper, so I looked at the cheap yellowing Sheet and studied its surface.
The whole paper Had been soaked as if someone stood over It reading it and weeping salt tears on it, Not just one night but a thousand nights.
The ink Blurred so much I could hardly read it.
This Didn't make much sense.
I crinkled it up, ready To toss it into the garbage and print a new copy When I noticed a stack of papers in the recycle bin.
I picked the pile up and thumbed through them Only to get the shock of my life.
There were At least a hundred copies of my poem in that pile And each one was yellow and soaked with tears.
Some of the ones on the bottom of the pile Looked fifty years old and crumbled in my hand.
I was afraid to look at the newspaper that lay In the recycle bin, afraid to even look at the Calendar on the wall.
I had the feeling a tragedy Had occurred, but I didn't have time to deal With it at that point, so I studied the poem For a quick rewrite.
Before I slept again I Examined several of the other sheets that were In the pile.
Many of the ones at the bottom Of the pile had cute little notes on them to me Like, "Honey, just two more days till we celebrate," And, "Hon, please put it down and come out.
" I decided I had truly neglected her and should Patch things up with her.
So I wrote before I went to sleep, "Come to me In the productive hours and we'll do this work As a team.
" And my head nodded after I ate The dinner she has left me.
When I awoke In the cold a little after midnight, the mist Still hovering over the wintry white sky, And like rivers her blood runs the page, an ink Of red that Her bright red blood traces my letters Together we run on the wintry page; It's as if we'd taken up a winter sport.
But The sticky note puzzles me that is stuck Onto the white slope; it says, "It's night, and The days of production are over.
"
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