Too Much Dirt

This is a book of poems. And some prose to explain those poems further. Again. Concerning the year and a half after the year and a half that marked me so. If the last eighteen months were about writing about how the scar was formed, these eighteen months describe how it tried to heal. Slowly though. Flaring up many times. Sore and angry. And still leaving its mark. They are words written at a specific time. I cannot write them again. Sometimes I didn't wish to write them in the first place. Yet poetry is a waking dream. The subconscious mind poking through your version of reality. Despite your best efforts at repressing them. Or diverting attention. They will out themselves. I have found there is no such thing as a clean break. Even as I strived for it. And ultimately it's so hard to let go of something when you have nothing much else to cling onto. And you don't know how far you might yet fall. It's a battle against yourself. Without the possibility of any redeeming triumph. But it must be said. And it must be done. And it must be seen to be said and done. "I am two fools, I know, for loving, and for saying so in whining poetry." John Donne