It occurred to me this morning that I’ve been spending a lot of my energy on editing poems rather than writing poems lately. Does all that creative energy and whatnot come from the same source? Is there a finite daily allotment? Or am I just being lazy and making excuses?

Honestly, I don’t really want the answer to those questions, so let me just say that the following poem is coming to you straight off the screen, fresh-written this morning, and has yet to feel the scarlet editing pen of shame.

Which is all a roundabout way of saying… go easy on this one, would ya?

reservation

all i asked for 
was a room with a view.

it could be a cheap room in some slumping house
or the presidential suite worth thousands per night,
but give me something with a view.

i want to see the ripples forming on forever’s surface,
the past & future melting in the furnace of today,
the 1967 World Series go the other way,
mysteries & monsters holding hands,
dumb luck come up roses one more time,

or perhaps a quick glance
of happiness through sunlight
before nightfall & madness.

give me that room,
non-smoking,
if you please.

After not writing much new poetry while I’ve been stuck in Revision Land, it’s been a veritable explosion of fresh material here!

Okay, so it’s been a couple poems. But still! That’s something.

Here’s one that I wrote yesterday.

contraptions

stubbornly sensual,
hands reach to caress - lips pout to kiss

& find only empty space
filled with air & questions.

think of that:
emptiness filled.

an artless definition of love
or a crude state of being?

all of us, empty & filled
in various ways -

jury-rigged apparatus
on the verge of catastrophe,

asked to bear
“just a little bit more”

Reaching back a bit for this one because I’ve been living in The Land of Revision as of late instead of writing new things. I’ll be glad to find some sort of an end to this project if only to say it’s done. In the meantime, enjoy this little chestnut from a few years back.

birds of a feather

because birds of a feather who never quite come together
are pulled apart from the part from which they want to be
a part... something whole for once instead of a piece
without peace that never quite finds that lease on life - 

first or second
that they’ve heard so much about
and without a doubt the hardest part 
is the softest spot
because that’s where the dagger goes

and it shows in the way that she
curls away from life in general - the way
she turns away from even the slightest compliment
or passing glance that never quite passes without a chance

to cut... or pierce that veil of stale air that surrounds
her inside that armor shell

There are four certainties in life. Death and taxes seem to get all the ink, but I firmly believe there’s two others. One is that the quickest way to get a bunch of tables when you’re a waiter is to order food for yourself. The other is that the quickest way to wind up writing about something is to say you haven’t been writing. The universe likes to point out how foolish we humans are.

So yeah, after my little diatribe yesterday about my lack of writing and late 90’s music, I got myself in gear with some prompts and cranked out the poem you’ll read today. And you know what? I like it. There’s a bit of editing and sanding of edges to be done, but this one felt good writing it yesterday, felt good typing it up this morning, and feels good sharing it.

This is one I stumbled across this morning and sparked my interest.

In the same way I’m confused when people who played beautifully (or at least better than myself) have given up on music, I’m still in disbelief over some of the writers I’ve known who have given up on words. Of course, I say this as someone who hasn’t touched a saxophone in quite awhile, so maybe I understand more than I’m willing to admit.

the right stuff
 
all the best poets i’ve known
have moved on to other things
 
one is shaping metal on the west coast
and the other is oil painting on the east
 
both were sublime with the word
and gave it up, seemingly cold turkey
 
yet here i am, plugging away with talent
that could be measured in microns
 
why?

because the words won’t let me go?
because my ego won’t let me go?
 
one more night, listening to the automobiles tear by
after last call, going to parts unknown & destruction -
 
this keyboard, a friendly face, wondering
about the peers who have disappeared.