Popular Music

The fucked up thing about poetry is that we imprison it in books.

after the too-long car ride 

of holding down a job

are words in Popular Music. It’s enough. I—you—could sit with this and this alone, and be content. Two lines is a whole book. They’re all you need to create the world anew.

Oh, hey Popular Music. What’s that? You say there are 130 pages left to read?

I’m sorry, I’m not emotionally available to grapple with anything else right now. I need more time to breath these lines in when when I wake and exhale them out just before I sleep.

And then again, the next day.

130 pages more, you say? Who can stand to have their world remade so many times over?

Collectively, we must uncouple such lines from the expectation of to-be-read. To free it from the mire of The Collection and let is soar into your soul. Do finish a book of poetry in less than a year. Don’t put it on goodreads. Let nothing so beautiful as poetry become a too-long car ride.