Here’s kind of a weird thing.
I was reading a poem by Charles
Simic called “Boredom”
A workshop instructor I had once
[why the italic? why that line break?]
said that Frank O’Hara didn’t revise.
(Pretty sure that’s the common wisdom
but I have my doubts. Might be wrong,
and the last thing I want to do is look
it up.) So this poem of Simic’s made me
think about boredom. And it occurred
to me after a couple of eye-blinks, Christ!
I’m not bored anymore. Ever.
And that, my friend, is not brag, just fact.
Not at all brag, maybe some kind of admission
about the growing dearth (if dearth can strictly
speaking grow [of course it can]) in an older man’s
not brain so much as sensibility or something else.
I don’t get bored anymore. (Start with that
says the instructor, get rid of all the self-
serving [why a hyphen? why this line break?]
shit that precedes it. Listen to the sentence!
Simple, intriguing: I don’t get bored anymore.)
I don’t get bored anymore.
I get everything else
but not bored. I know that
that’s significant to those who
think things are significant
(and I’m not saying things
aren’t significant, some
things don’t need saying)