James McKee
Confessional
Hear James McKee read “Confessional” here.
Friends, I’m having one of those days. Everything’s bad and getting worse. It’s obvious by now that for all the valiant and selfless striving, most of us won’t change fast enough for it to matter. The trash, the cars, the meat, the water: do your part or don’t, trust science or that guy on YouTube, it’s the same. Friends, as a poet I shouldn’t be writing this, but my mood’s in no mood to worry about how it makes me sound. Well, challenge accepted. Ask yourselves this: what were you expecting when you breezed in here past a title like the one above? Something squalid and personal, all binges, breakdowns, and performative trauma? Sorry to disappoint, but in my disclosure the catastrophe on display is you, not me. Fact is, friends, I’m ashamed for our species, and for most of us as individuals too. I wish it wasn’t like that, but it is. Boom. So you can understand why I’m always coming back here, this bright noplace where I’m never too proud to remember kindnesses shown me when I was poor, or lonely, or foolish, by someone with nothing to gain. Because here, the rinsed light of morning never quite fades from the view out over green quiltworked fields, orchards, a river sweeping grandly off toward the sea beyond. And today you came, which makes me glad because why shouldn’t it? It does. It will. Here I wish you, I wish us all, well.
James McKee enjoys failing in his dogged attempts to keep pace with the unrelenting cultural onslaught of late-imperial Gotham. His debut poetry collection, The Stargazers, was published in the spring of 2020, while his poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Spoon River Poetry Review, Another Chicago Magazine, New Ohio Review, New World Writing, The Ocotillo Review, Illuminations, CutBank, Flyway, THINK, The Midwest Quarterly, Xavier Review, and elsewhere. He spends his free time, when not writing or reading, traveling less than he would like and brooding more than he can help.
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