(For over a year, in between her life in a back yard tent and her present place back under the open sky, this poet succumbed several times to the illusion that our society’s lowest-rate rental room households contain anything other than drug addiction, alcoholism, predation, and way too much noise ever to write poetry.
Her most recent landlord took her rent, demanded one hundred dollars over the agreed amount, went back to drinking full time, and then within the month’s first ten days entered her room without permission while she was sleeping, prompting her escape.
Behind her she left four hundred dollars’ unreturned rent — leaving her with $30 to negotiate the remainder of the month — as well as all of her warm winter clothing and, in fact, every possession which would not fit into the two small bags which, in her disabled condition, she can hope to lift without self injury.
The listener will forgive, in this recording of a poem written in one of these fleeting moment of reasonable hope, the back-up signals of trash trucks with whom this poet now shares the only hours quiet enough for outdoor recording.)
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I won’t remember too much
I do not wish to cry
My heart goes out to all the souls
Still wanly wand’ring by…
“Light Without” (0:59)
https://www.dropbox.com/s/tjdhvh7lhh6vsr9/Light%20Without.m4a?dl=0
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The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:https://www.gofundme.com/are-you-a-patron-of-the-arts
