Winter's Bone

Paula Jane and I just watched it. One of the best picture's I've ever seen, and that's some deep country, you know? Hit me right across the mouth.

Someone told me that the last poem I wrote wasn't really a poem at all. I dunno. Thought it was. Felt like one, writing it, reading it. Could be I don't know what a poem is anymore, or maybe my idea was always a little off. Could be my idea of dissolving into verses was fucked from the start—maybe verses are no better than we are, maybe poetry itself is nothing to save anyone.

Hoot was an old guy I knew. He was married to Mozelle, and lived with her across the creek from the pink house. He was always telling stories about the outlaw Sam Bass; when I was a kid, they seemed contemporaneous, and I was always expecting him to show up one day.

I always imagined Mozelle having yellow hair, when she was a girl.

When Ree's uncle waded into that nest of vipers to bring her home, I welled up. Kin means something, no matter what else we find was less than advertised. Blood tells, for good or ill, but for always, either way.

I have these dreams. Maybe you got em, too, if you're really fucking out there—really reading what the fuck I say—maybe you know what I mean.

I'm very, very slow, on the uptake. Sometimes this is willful, sometimes I am sort of lost inside myself. Sometimes I like it that way. Sometimes not. Weaver thought I was something better than what I am. She seldom guessed right, though.

Just how it crumbles. Cookiewise.

I really thought it was a poem.

When Yeats saved my life, long time ago, he made me believe I had a home—that I could live inside the art. Maybe the motherfucker lied. Then again, maybe it was the early Yeats, told me that. The romantic Yeats—the one some hipsters laugh at.

I've been told that I'm a romantic. Maybe I am, around the edges. I'm afraid to look too deep. Easier just to be—ain't it? Like Auden said. I thought he was a romantic, too, underneath it all, but he says I'm wrong.

I'm wrong all the fucking time.

I find existentialism to be wrong-headed, and beside the point, anyway. Maybe believing in God makes you a romantic, these days.

Afraid to sleep tonight. Afraid of the dreams. You ever feel that way?

Probably not. See Winter's Bone, anyway. Great flick.