All Used Up

“Well,” said Uncle History, “you can’t go back to the woods,” by which he meant the forest of the imagination. “We’ve been ruined,” he added. Then he got specific: “the Troubadour poets; castle walls, mechanical nightingales…all that la di da!” He meant it too. “The cafes, the wounded-ness songs; paving stones under your feet, walking home from dances.” Then he took a swig of clear liquor and you could see sunlight through his bottle—the label read, “no purpose for a poem, no purpose for words….”

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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