Humanity is a player, said Huizinga, play being the part, the parcel of how we get and go. The poet who tells us this says she was once accused of just trying to crack herself up. I’m reminded I was told once that as a poet I was drunk on sound, and not in a good way. I say burp to that and chest-bump my fellow poet. We are coyote — the trickster AND Wile E. (If I believed in god, he would be the Roadrunner. Beep beep, and he’s gone.) Deal me in, sister, and slap me five. I’ve got a stogie and a porkpie hat and mama needs a new pair o’ shoes.
Read Darla Malech on poetry and play: