Searching for lost confessions

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There is so much to confess. A thousand things must be confessed.

Thirteen moons since last I confessed.

What is confession? The admission of guilt? A written or oral disclosure of activity committed that requires reconciliation, restitution, and restoration?

Confessional poetry of the 1950s and 1960s (think of poets like John Berryman, Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell) forever changed the course of American poetry. It was less of a religious expression and more of a psychological therapy for the poet(s).

When I first started posting confessions it was somewhere closer to a Japanese renga meets an American confessional poem meets to-do-list.

But those confessions, those poems, those lists, fell into my beard and the rain washed them down Jefferson Street to the Third Ward. I have tried to locate them…
in coffeeshops…
underpasses…
alleys…
and park lots…

Previous confessions: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

Confessions : 10

01. It has been many winters since my last confession.

02. Yesterday, I jogged three miles west of the village.

03. In the rain. And wind.

04. A woman stopped her SUV along the road to ask if I needed a ride. I thanked her and declined.

05. I am reading a volume of poetry by Robert Lowell for the first time.

06. And also reading Lamentations.

07. Last week, the faithful MacBook Pro of seven years — named Hagar — nose-dived into hard drive oblivion.

08. Nearly seven days without a laptop and connection to the internet.

09. Hagar’s replacement arrived. Now connected to the matrix.

10. Somehow, I miss those days of non-digital, non-internet existence.

Previous confessions: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]