Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Ugly Mugs & Figurative Language

I think it all finally fell into place last night. Poetry readings make me uneasy. For so many reasons, and it really haunts me (ghastly butter type of haunting). I like poetry, and love the process. A spin on something new is always the goal, and a revelation when they occur, but still the shifting within the bones never stops when at a poetry reading. So I think that last night as the shifting juxtaposed my position in my chair for the 17th time, and I had counted the grains in the beam above me one too many times I figured it out: I have restless leg syndrome. Provided, Restless leg syndrome was not merely a pharmaceutical induced cash cow and an actual disease that could take over the complete body and mind, I have it. I spin too fast. Jump through hoops that aren’t even there to give myself something to do. Get in my car and drive when there is nowhere to go. At the reading I wrote 6 new lines of nothing, just because my mind cannot focus. I don’t think I was even focussed while I was reading, but far more fascinated by the ceiling fans wisping my papers and the single light bulb in what required 4.

So I am the uneasiness not the actual poetry readings themselves. Even now I am typing and thinking about Daniel’s kindle. His poems trapped in that little screen, but so organized where as mine are scattered through the office, across the kitchen table and sometimes entwined in the bed sheets. It is official, the problem is me.

By the way I read three poems, 22, Dear StepMother and Iscariot. I think they were good, but I wasn’t really there to tell you, so don’t trust a word I say.

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