Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Feature: Mike Finley Day 3
The Family that Bathes Together
You could be Fabio and still
look silly in the bath.
It is unmasculine to recline
in soapy water and relax.
Bobbing through the foam
at the center of your self
is the bobbin of the penis
a buoy in a sudsy gulf.
Periscope, sea monster,
bearded triton of the tub,
bishop with a face only
a mother superior could love,
These ancient ablutions
prepare us for bed.
Tuck the little one in
and kiss him on the head.
Artwork and Poetry © Mike Finley
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How has poetry changed your life?
The more I think about it, it's just a hobby, like fly-tying or baking cookies. Something that amuses me and a very few others, and that you can get better at all your life – but has only private value.
I still have a love/hate relationship with it after all these years. I still feel the fire of detention hall scribbles, and the chest-beating and so forth.
The problem of writing remains that it arises in one head, and you want to port it to other heads. Beauty, humor, entertainment are your leverage. But it still takes two – and getting that second head to receive can be a bitch. And it's not necessarily their fault.
You need “genius” to locate the right word, but you need humility, too. It so punishes the asshole within.
I worry that this frustration is making me testy, and even less appealing. But – who knows, you know?
Occasionally, late in the day, you can still surprise yourself with something that is true and beautiful, and not ravingly immodest.
And you say, wow, I was really lucky to be able to do this.