People sometimes ask me about my poetry.
Autobiographical? Maybe. Some of it.
But you'll never know which parts.

The fact is that sometimes I
can't tell the difference myself.
The fingers start to tap over

the keyboard and when need calls,
or demands, or just barely whispers,
fact and fiction blend into one.

Fine-woven tapestries, tattered pieces,
the boring parts and the dramatic -
which are which anymore? Did I

invent the excitement, or tone down
the extreme? History becomes truth
when it's written down, stabilized

by ink and light and mass exposure.
Who's to say whether the first historian
preferred fiction to non?

Our whole history could be nothing more
than the watered-down fancies
and inflated existences of centuries

of bored and brilliant scribes.
Not to say that they knew
the difference. I certainly don't.

04/24/2005

Author's Note: And yet ANOTHER one for the poetry class. Yeah, it's due tomorrow, I'm cranking them out. Ok, so this is an imitation of Marge Piercy. 3-line stanzas, occassional interesting imagery, some personification and slight alliteration thrown in for good measure, etc. oh, and Mystory instead of History (his-story) is the kind of cheeky reworking of a word that she would do. Meh. Kinda crappy. Idea didn't come out as I wanted. Will rework at some point.

Posted on 04/25/2005
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