Tonight's Poet Corner: Percussive Denouement
Percussive Denouement by Belinda Roddie Almost exactly ten years ago, I wrote about stream-of-consciousness nostalgia at only twenty-two years. White Russians were still my go to at bars like Paul's in Orange. Shervin and I don't speak much these days. I stirred in a healthy seasoning of pseudo-enlightenment about poetry as if I, a gay enby with the complexion of mayonnaise, could hold words in my hands as comfortably as my cats before they squirmed for escape. The illusions I thought I wove were merely fraying threads on a sweater (they still are. But at least the fabric is still mostly intact). I do not create illusions. I am fooled by them. My stories are influenced by weird dreams. And I have gained more weight in ten years. And I have seen more heartbreaks in ten years. And I know panic attacks like old friends at bars where I can barely stomach dairy, unlike ten years ago. The decade has been shaky, achy, riddled with holes. Termites and bullets didn't cause my wounds
