a mix of commentary,editorial, fiction, and poetry.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Ten poems


Late at night, my pen is leaking. Pen has been in my hand at least an hour—that’s the side effect from writing. I hear someone upstairs moaning unfortunately it isn’t exciting--- two guys want me to call them, my godmother’s neighbor said come see him. Tell people to get a number and get in line


There was a time in life I thought I knew—where I was headed, what I wanted to do. Then I didn’t want to do anything, didn’t know what I wanted to do. So here it is: I want to find my direction, and say yes I know what this is—and it is finally coming together for me, yes I’ve finally found it come sit down and be with me again because I finally found the way—I can sit and breathe again, I can stand and be again, I can sleep again, I can look up again--- I know the way and the way is high


Always drink your coffee. Drink it once twice three times drink it early drink it often. Put it on your to do list, in your calendar on your grocery list on your black berry on your cell phone. Put it in your emergency kit. Make it first thing in the morning, the last thing you think of. In the hectic rhythms of daily life: traffic, birthdays, grocery store lines, concerts, poetry readings, writing, major league freak outs , dates, and the list goes on: we have to remember what keeps us going.


Ink stained hands, pen leaking, snoring in the next room, and I’m fighting to stay alive by putting sentences on factory conveyor belts so I can package them, and mail them out, ship them to the masses, so people can eat them with their milk from a box, so I can clear my head, before I sleep.


I’ve only had about five rejection slips. Not sure what I think—not fazed—not sure either if I want to continue on that route or just cut out and do my own thing


Sometimes I’ve felt a failure, in the past I can’t do anything right, and now I am glad that at least I have words. I can do something with those I figure


When I first read my work in workshop, someone asked me if I had any of my work typed. No it wasn’t that serious. I wasn’t a real poet. Now I’m trying to get one together. I have poems coming out of my navel, my toes, my ears, my lips.


I am still debating whether or not I want to continue submitting my work to journals, to see what happens, to continue getting rejected? Part of me laughs.

To do lists

Eat write sleep repeat. Sometimes I forget what I have to do or I try to remember I write a list to remind me—get coffee, take out trash, find a job, return that call, check my email, wash my hair, write that book, read more poetry, drink more coffee, figure out what I want to do with my life, draw more pictures, meet more friends, try to figure out what’s going on with the relationship thing, figure out what’s going out with the sex thing, drink more coffee, eat more donuts go to the grocery store have a bottle of wine try not to think morbid thoughts, pick a career, go for a walk, watch news, eat, write, sleep and repeat. Water plants

Writers block

Late at night cars going by outside and I am getting over the latest illness—writers block that some say doesn’t exist. Symptoms: listlessness, not understanding anything, empty headed syndrome, no idea brain, throwing up, headaches, occasional coughing, pen in hand—hand not moving, staring at computer screens, the sense that it is all leaving you, that every time you write something down it just isn’t happening. Coffee doesn’t help. The only cure is sitting on the couch and watching tv for 72 hours.


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