All I own I cleaned and placed in boxes, and may leave in boxes, crowding the walls around the central space. There lies my great wooden desk, small but solid, I take with me wherever I go. All the way back to 1998. There lies my intention to write my poetry, my prose, my words, my books. The tv got the last of invitations. I may not open the door. When I die someone oughta cut my desk down and bury me in it. Together may we be — repurposed.
a sunday morning begs me to create. i choose words. the creation of things may come less by tranquility than by chaos, equally informed by experience. the energy a song of words holds is generous and gives, if not selfless or attractive. we are naturally drawn to a sweet rhythm carried on a baseline. words have many meanings. our cultures are the context. I like most to let them free in the wilderness of a curious city
twelve.17
the winds rose overnight and compelled us all to feel. limbs of sycamores fell into the streets. the cat brought me a headless robin in a mouth full with feathers. i believe i am chosen to be raw. nothing comes easy anymore. i tell my story by words. life has never been so enticing.
the irons
the letters
rise up slicing
the gunmetal
sky
striking definitively
marking indelible
paper thins
wet with ink
forming words
forming sentences
paragraphs
pages replete
with ink dry now
gather up your work
in a bundle
tie with twine
wet
with
meaning
crush
me
ima grape
turning always
colors
without you
i age
well
without
you
i
books dissolved into
passages dissolved into
words dissolved into
letters dissolved into
tears
