Writing: sex-like desire that comes and
goes, a manic fetish that ebbs and flows.
It’s like music, or maybe marriage. But
how would I know? A rejection can soothe,
ironically, like Bartok’s Fourth (the screechy one),
or Bluebeard’s Castle (the weird one): adjectives
to describe people you likely know (or
yourself). I’m less a Vitruvian than
I am a wannabe love-child of Bly,
man-mythos conjugating as much as
my syllable-counting mania can
take it: not very. The creamy yolk of
the sonnet quells hungry wonder, but lust,
indelible, tears the man asunder.
Laugh if I say I feel old: id tectonic
and tesseracting existential . . . but
when my words, world tessellates weary, I
retreat in the tropey penance of a
love poem: safe verve of wonder, ever-embossed
with cliché and hopelessness. My students
don’t know either yet. Good. Dark now; back to
the oeuvres of my mad Impressionist
heroes, quintessing with proclivity
for weird, and me sopping it like ancestral
nectar, or just good wine. I’ve still got a
long-lost brother to meet, poetry to
teach, lightness to find. For as elusive
as that sounds, I’m only lacking the time.
A life-lover’s Rubicon, 25th birthday,
approaches: that’s about a quarter down,
maybe half . . . but it’s the 27s that endlessly
percolate my neuroses: Cobains, Joplins,
and Morrisons of my years, and parents
obsessed with being dead. Until then, I’m
trudging the fen of another autumn’s
drizzle and dread, wonder’s dowry in tow:
man’s ramshack offices, orifices,
and fabric of his angst to hem and sew.
Mental moors that wuther inscrutable,
seeds to sculpt sonnets or helm madrigals,
are here to stay and grow. As for what’s to
be, stay, come after? Man will never know.
Tyler Wettig resides in Ypsilanti, Michigan. His latest chapbook is The Adult Table (Zetataurus, 2018). Tyler’s website: https://www.tylerwettig.wordpress.com.