I'll read some, sort of, more personal poems, now.
I wrote personal poems, what you would
call autobiographical narratives of crisis and resolution--
[LAUGHTER]
--for quite a while.
And then I got bored.
The poet, William Matthews, once said
that it's a social error to begin every sentence
with the first person, I. And so I wrote away from that, sort
of, in the poems that I was just reading,
but this is, kind of, a personal poem.
And this is also, sort of, set in a season.
It's set in November, in a place where the leaves change color.
Not Tucson, I guess.
And what it's about is it's about--
I'm one of those people I just have a--
I've always had a huge chip on my shoulder.
And I'm certainly more willing to believe
that people are my enemies than my benefactors or my friends.
And so if you're operating out of that kind of worldview
the best revenge you can take on your enemies is to live well
and to be happy.
It's a perverse, sort of, motive for good living but--
[LAUGHTER]
--that's, sort of, the worldview that's
being proposed in this poem.
It's called "Reasons to Survive November."
Could be called "Reasons Not to Kill Yourself,"
just to get even with them.
[LAUGHTER]
"Reasons to Survive November."
"November like a cha -- train wreck.
As if a locomotive made of cold had hurtled out of Canada
and crashed into a million trees, flaming the leaves,
setting the woods on fire.
The sky is a thick, cold gauze but there's
a soup special at the Waffle House
and the Jack Parsons show is up at the museum, full of luminous
red barns.
I know there are some people out there who
still think I am supposed to end up in a room by myself
with a gun and a bottle full of hate,
a locked door and my slack mouth open like a disconnected phone.
But I hate those people back from the core
of my donkey soul.
And the hatred makes me strong.
In my survival is their failure.
And my happiness would kill them.
So I shove joy, like a knife, into my own heart
over and over.
And I force myself towards pleasure.
And I love this November life where I run like a train
deeper and deeper into the land of my enemies."
Sometimes, I think, revenge is the only thing
I actually write poems out of.
[LAUGHTER]
The spirit of revenge.