Posted: February 7, 2016 in Ink's Poetry

look closely; in purple: “Centralia”

life is all about studying and emulating routine until you get so sick of it that the only recourse is to smash it to smithereens.

nearing 40 years on a planet, i imagine it so incredibly sick of spinning that it brought about its own destruction by hosting such a self-destructive species as man. i’ve never felt more a want for an end to everything just because that would be something previously inconceivable.

a couple weeks ago, i went on an annual pilgrimage to see a weather-prognosticating groundhog. i’m beginning to see the value of the insanity — buying into something completely nonsensical for the sake of celebration; everything’s basically an excuse for a party. but when every day is an exercise in trying to kill yourself through normal means, an outright attempt seems (at least to oneself) courageous.

this year, instead of riding in a motorcade of fellow poets and artists, i made the trek out to Puxsutawney on my own with one very specific purpose in mind: i was going out alone so that I could drive home alone. that drive home was to include a town that’s been on fire for 50+ years: Centralia, PA.

toxic gas and sinkholes are the very real possible methods of conveyance into the afterlife (if one exists) that exist in this all-but abandoned town — population five and dwindeling. basically, i went to Centalia to see if the universe still wanted me. i called bluffs by wandering everywhere; steam vents and sink holes were investigated with an almost grotesque wanderlust, and yet i type this.

funny thing: as i explored Centralia, i felt my poetic senses coming back. it wasn’t a fear of god sort of thing but simple experience. (how insidious entertainment as distraction is!) while walking around, i scratched lines and impressions in a tiny yellow notepad. i had no idea as to whether or not i’d be able to input them into my computer back home or if anyone, should the pad and myself become separated, could even make out those last scribbled impressions.

as it so happened, the lines conceived upon that metaphorical precipice were some of the first i allowed to take their own course in some time, and i’m extremely glad of it. while writing poems inspired by my own situation as backdropped by Centralia, i managed to let go and overcome my fear of the keyboard — something that’s been plaguing my output for quite some time.


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