as a kid i wanted and knew I would never lead a normal life nor even know what a normal life means.

tern, but it would not be born. And ye

it's a long poem by hayden carruth writing in a remote place about his dead daughter and his isolation and his Anxiety psychoneurosis /(Chronic and acute) / Complicated by / Generalized phobic /Extensions and alcoholism,” and told he would “never again live a normal life.

tern for term and ye for yet, typos halt one in the walk of a long poem. make me think of a poem composed of typos, thinking of typos as normal, normal as it happens to be.

anyway strangely i guess maybe i had titled the picture of lulu a normal life before i read his poem with halting typos and now i haven't finished it. i could have written a short poem in this time i suppose.

and i think now, as i read a line about the lights going out, about the people in gary, indiana, powerless, in the merciless power grid dark.

and suddenly i think of the hummingbird that died trying to fly to the japanese plum trees outside the window by my bed, dead in my pillow, a droplet on its bill glistening, i put in a in a jar on a rafter on the porch above the front door. and i wonder how long it stayed there. is it still there?

now i have strayed far from the start, and i will go back again and begin.

oh my, the poem goes on! i have to do the laundry! yes, from a poet blocked for years! talking to virtually no one! passionately!

And like all elegiac words, these swirl

around the question forever unanswered: “What for? What

       is it all for?”

thanks to eva h.d. and hayden carruth (i still haven't finished the poem).