Untitled (a poem)

I don’t write poems. Poems flow through me. As woo-woo as that sounds, it’s the only way it has ever worked. The thinking and the agonizing over word choice only show up in the editing. (If only the rest of life followed that system.)

This one came after the first line sparked from seeing the collage on the left, standing alone in that vast space. What you see here is exactly how the lines arrived, typed straight into the InDesign file for the first issue of emonome. If I hadn’t, out of pure faith, taken a craft knife to a magazine page earlier that day, none of this would exist.

Another small reminder from the world: get your hands into things more often.

Untitled

The last time I slept through the night
I dreamt of an old man telling his 
younger self,
"When you wake up in 
the morning, write me a letter."

The young man woke up, went to his desk, 
sat in front of a natural white sheet of paper 
with his favorite pen in hand, 
and became old.