Spring 2022
Diary Entry 202: Does the Dog Die? Regis Reed
I want to write a poem about ideation. I want to write a poem about thoughts. I want to write a poem that makes no sense and makes sense and makes cents, because I’m poor and love word play. I am pausing this poem to make a dystopian playlist, so stop here. Get a drink. I have returned. You wouldn’t know either way if that was true. It is true. It is two hours and nine minutes long; it has thirty-three songs on it; when you were 33 I remember being so small. I remember being so small. And you were 33 but you have grown and I have grown and now I am so tall your little arms do not hold me like they used to. I want to write a poem about the grief of a child. I want to write a poem that captures all the wants I wanted in childhood, one that births dreams into realities. This is a dystopian poem. This is a dystopian poem because I am a dystopian poet and I am returned. This is diary entry 202. You should look up the other 201. You should look on ‘does the dog die.’ You should know the dog does not die but a funeral is still held. I want to write a poem in conversation. I want a conversation. I want to build a world out of words that fits all the things that don’t fit into this one. I want to fit in your little arms. I do not. I do not know what that means–for me, for us. I do not know. I do not know. I don’t know, but back to the playlist and the two hours and the nine minutes and the thirty-three songs. I am a builder. I am a creator–creature–crater. Space rocks are not special outside of our planet. When they hit the ground they are special. Do not read into that, it is not a metaphor.
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