Some thoughts

This time I focused more on individual postings. Posted comments on specific ones.

Somehow I thought of this poem of mine. For what it's worth. (Have I shared it before?)

Chris


Get Back Honky Cat

I didn’t know Derrida was dead.

But then I don’t think I actually read
a word of him even in grad school,
when we used to draw our coffee
from urns and argue before classes
at the long tables in the Union
or the Hub or whatever it was called.
I could have been in high school:

I knew that little. I do remember
the warm lights of the cafeteria
and that it was dark outside, morning,
and how alive I felt. Steve Cole
was right that time he stormed out
of the Byron seminar. I didn’t even know
when Byron was born, and I still don’t,

though Derrida, of course, wouldn’t have
minded this a bit. Even as a kid,
when I used to drive my brother
to Mrs. Winky’s for his piano lesson
and I’d sit at the top of the hill, listening
to Elton John on the radio, I didn’t really
understand the words. I didn’t care.

Snow was falling. Lights were coming on
in the quiet houses. I don’t think
I even had snow tires on that Chevy.
We were always slipping and sliding
our way home, down the icy streets.
The idea just never occurred to me
that anything could really happen.