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


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.