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.