Here’s a little excerpt from “Work Libido” by Chase Twitchell, in Dog Language.
Gamblers and poets share
a passion for what’s next: the flush
disguised as a boat with a hole
(that’s poker talk), or a rift
in the poem, a soft spot that yields
the sticky perfume of pine pitch,
like burned honey but resinous,
spicy, antiseptic, a conduit straight
to childhood with its ferns
their not-quite-mature spores
glistening like caviar among green feathers.
And to the little diamond snake that slithered
round my neck (but only for a while).
I love that image of the soft spot in the poem. But even more, I love her statement that poets have a passion for “what’s next.” I’ve always been WAY too interested in what’s next. I have been thinking that it is an inheritance from Eve. Women, I hypothesize, just have an inherent tendency to keep "what’s next" on their radar, while the men are content to sit with their feet up happily clutching the remote control and a beer (or, er, gummy worms, as the case may be). I imagine the conversation in the Garden of Eden going something like this:
Eve: Adam, have you thought about what’s next?
Adam: You mean, the half-time show--? Or what?
Eve: No, I mean after this.
Adam: After what?
Eve: This. This place. This hanging out stuff. There’s got to be something else, don’t you think?
Adam: What for?
Eve: I’m just—I don’t know—itchy. Restless. We’re not GOING anywhere. Shouldn’t we be planning something?
So, anyway, I assumed it was a female thing. But Chase Twitchell (who is a female) thinks it is a poets thing. What do you think?