Poem of the Month

A blog is a terrible thing.

You think it would quench the thirst for real publication, but it doesn’t.
Instead you act a little tyrant, and push your agenda. Your own printing press and audience. A Napoleon of poetry.

And then when you need to speak to people, they don’t know who to listen to. The voice in the blog or you. And when you think about all you have said to the world, you have to wonder if you really meant it, but there it is, said and said and said. And there is no taking it back, is there. And the delete key seems such an impotent option. A thing can’t be unread.

But the most terrible thing about a blog is that it’s all there in one place, consolidated, lucid. Every inconsistency shining forth, juxtaposed. A stubborn consistency it makes, and Emerson would be rolling over in his grave, the way we let it demand that we mean what we say and say what we mean and then account for it all again and again.

There comes a time when you go too far, and from there you either strip completely naked, or you leave town.