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A Poem: Upon Watching ‘Joan Didion The Center Will Not Hold’
a Documentary of American Literary Icon Joan Didion
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Thursday Night, [American Eve,] Nowhere In Particular
American English devolves into scrawlings
of misspelled words, inscribed on the backs
of tarnished moral compasses,
each bearing a needle perpetually pointing south,
quivering against the pull of magnetic correction.
It leaves us all oblivious to direction or personal conviction,
though who or what can be blamed? Each shares
an opinion over cigarettes and coffee, the restless shoes
shifting beneath us as the needle pulls and pulls.
The stench of weed does not speak of freedom,
climbing upward through the bathroom vent,
seeping between the studs, permeating paint
and layer upon layer of spackle between tenants.
How are we here? News reports carry the common;
one after another, filing across the screen,
restless shoes, empty pockets, a dull-eyed march
toward someplace south of Dignity.
Dixie is spelled correctly here. We pretend it’s the name
of…
