last night i finished preparing my submissions for the Found Poetry Review‘s upcoming David Foster Wallace-inspired edition. as is my wont, i cut the poem out of the [copy of the] page. or, perhaps more correctly, cut the words away from the poem left standing on the [copy of the] page.
normally, i’d set these scraps aside in an envelope and plan to do Something with them. i’d have grand plans. every time i’d see that envelope, i’d think, “oh yeah…must do Something with those.” perhaps i’ll make a collage. or add them to a not-yet-painted painting. or they’ll be seed phrases for a play i’ll surely write soon.
eventually the Something becomes a joyous union between these scraps and the rest of the recycling at the curb on Monday.
but what the hell. it’s the start of a new month; let’s just dive right in. here is a poem from phrases on the scraps, created not 24 hours after they were cut from the page. freshly cut. consider it a localvore poem. or don’t. up to you.
each line is from its own scrap. it ain’t perfect, but it’s good enough that i wonder if i should have submitted this:
and this, despite the many
guys with walkie-talkies
he isn’t equipped
roadie black t shirt
anxiety in man
hard to put a finger
at various places to
out that day
a strange weather phenomenon
well, at least now the scraps will have something to talk about while they wait with the yogurt cup and the beer bottles.
you’re welcome, scraps.
(All words in the poem are David Foster Wallace’s, from pages 150 & 176 of “David Lynch Keeps His Head,” as included in A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again)