April 13:

It’s difficult to wade through old memories. I find myself often sitting at the typewriter with my eyes shut and my thumbs pushing into the sides of my nose. I am looking back through old pain to write these poems. “tatterdemalion soldier” was tough. Perhaps that’s why it sounds made up. I am no solider. But that poem is me; it’s about a very specific period in my life. Writing it, I was surprised how easily I slipped into the metaphor. I have many masks, it seems.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t help being confusing. These poems don’t make any sense. I love them, but I can tell. These theater keys, these wounded soldiers; I went into this project intending to be vulnerable. Am I still confessing if the reader can’t even tell what I’m saying? Openness is much more complex than it appears, it would seem.

Maybe nobody needs to know that these poems are about me. Maybe their autobiography is a secret only to those involved. I don’t know. These poems come first, then their implications.

Some more drafts: