Dissolution

So I stayed up late last night (this morning), had maybe one more glass of wine than I should, got to writing. Got a little tired, willed myself to bed, only to lie there and compose about four poems in my head. That last one was one of them. I wonder whether I'll remember the others.

I had that struggle I have, sometimes, when I wonder whether to get up and write and write and write, or stay in bed and try to get on track: a decent night's sleep, an early morning. I will be starting work again soon--the kind of work where I remain upright and shower and get paid, not art work--and I'll need to maintain such salubrious structure.

I wonder how many poems I lose when I'm good. But I know that the other way is not a healthy way to go, not all the time.

I just wrote this one, based on last night's dream. I see from my old semi-informed pal Wikipedia that "planchet" is an unprinted coin. I might have been thinking of the Ouija planchette, or of some French word I can't quite remember.


GOODBYE GURU

I dreamed that you,
lecturing your followers,
asked us the French for table.

The woman in front of me
on the bus declared:
Planchet. I, timidly,
mining schoolgirl memory,
offered table. You didn’t hear me.

The thing is what it is,
not some hunk to be molded
into coin of our choosing,
some base metal
redeemed by a fancy half-face.

Hard wood, sturdy legs,
a smooth surface for work.
From this we should eat.