Off the cuff, off the hook, sometimes off the chain. In the right place at the right time with a pen in hand and enough head space to run. Usually a short riff but a rant or recollection could go off sideways. Hang on tight.
Some loose-leaf poetry from “Declassified,” a ghost’s story. in the still I must refine pull leaves from wind’s stream so to taste them in a curl on the sides little pieces to consider mid-dream in the still I refine in the still the still I must refine the witches dance …
I have all the times in all the worlds and I always have time for a rainy day…
Focus. Work on finishing that poem. It grows. It shrinks. It breathes. Perhaps overthinks. Because that’s what a poem does. It is as I am. It lives its own life. She rights me as I write her but she won’t wait and I find the poem is poet and I …
She lives in these false little timesin her false little skinsso to stitch together a soulfor her ghost collecting them.
A groundhogtries to dighis way outfrom undermy thunderbut even he’senlightened.
