Friends, last night I spoke with a cancer survivor about the primal scream that is poetic utterance, that poetry — however you define it — can face the extreme.
here’s a modest contribution.
unfinished poem
today I started a poem about 3 boys
who were murdered in a far away desert
but I couldn’t finish the poem because
as I was correcting the words, honing the language,
to make this perfect homage to these victims
some people murdered another boy
because of the 3 dead boys in the desert.
the 4th boy was just walking, but they killed
him because they thought revenge
was magic.
and as I was changing the poem
to reflect these new drastic developments
I read about boy #5 who died all alone — he just
died in a desert far away trying to come
here to THIS desert called America. clutching a rosary.
wearing jeans. so now I’m scared to try to finish
writing because I’m up to 5 dead boys and
soon there might be 11. so
I’m not going to finish, I’m not even
going to end, I’m going to pause and
make my breath go out and in and out
just hoping just hoping just hoping
Stephanie Barbé Hammer Writing (Un) Real 
Reblogged this on junsie and commented:
wow. I have been lately, having constant waves of anxiety and though i have been getting better at working and working towards a greater goal, there is always this sinking feeling that nothing i will ever do will ever amount to any good and there is a need to write poetry and a need to have this restless being inside of me to howl towards whatever-
but that line, wow, “the primal scream that is poetic utterance, that poetry- however you define it- can face the extreme.”