Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
Things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find them. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.

What's in my Journal
William Stafford


Okay, it's not Frank O'Hara, but I like and agree with the part about chasms in character and deliberate obfuscation. Plus I think journaling about journaling (or, technically blogging about blogging I suppose) is appropriate and necessary once in a while to maintain a proper level of perspective and gravity (or lack thereof) in places like this. All of that meta- stuff. Love it. I used to collect quotes and half-amusing things like this on my xanga page and just post them privately. But there's no such thing as privacy here. (How terrifying.) Anyway, that's where this would go if here were still there, so no judging me based on the fact that I like this mediocre poem. I happen to like all different kinds of poems, good, bad, and ugly alike.