I detected a lack of growth in myself, and a lack of vertical mobility in life; though if one examined the record I believed it would be more than apparent this could not be helped. It’s possible though, my perspective had changed a little with time.
Despite the eerie, or pitiful associations of my past and present, I had to conclude the poems for the most part were not bad. They were unassuming, had the right dash of autobiography for a proletarian writer and were free of academic embalming fluid. I put them away, thinking I would allow free reign to visions of poems to float untethered in a part of my cerebrum; and if poetry came bursting forth it could be recorded. If a poem could make it there, it could make it anywhere, I told myself.
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