This morning I listened to an interview 

with poet Ada Limón. She spoke about 

epiphanies and didactic endings

and how sometimes a poet must surrender 

to the discomfort of unknowing.

How sometimes it is best to listen 

The ink darkens, leeching my energy as I trace an index over the text. A rejection letter from California Institute of the Arts, and best regards. No better than every other art academy who also shelved my portfolio.

The letter lands neatly in the bin. I stalk to my studio.

I’m sitting in the middle of nowhere, on a hill looking toward the horizon. No tripod, just crossed legs and my elbows resting on my knees, holding an old camera filled with darkroom film.

in this town

words hold hostages

not meaning.

if i cry i will

bleed, and i will

lose,

integrity and i will

rip apart the frontdrop that has

made my portraits pretty

for (maybe) minutes on end.

words

like amorphous chunks of metal

they rest on a shelf in my brain

and beg to be molded

I long to hold them in the

fire of my skull

till they are soft and malleable

In solitude of the night, with help of

the early storm, you find peace and

utter relaxation. Tearing down the

limits of your imagination, making

room for the inspiration, the

imaginative power of your soul.

I don’t know why,

Maybe it was just a thought.

‘Less it was not to just sit here,

And have my mind rot.

Writing on paper,

With the scratch of pen.

Thinking of nothing,

‘Cept the thoughts of men.

There is a thing that is stronger than yourself,

That is from you; its plan is one of stealth.

White-hot insults out of a mouth are poured,

Never underestimate the power of a word!

Poetry is nothing

But everything

Dances in dreams

That vanish when you wake

Coffee and cream

With a taste of cake

Simplicity found

In a hard drive

Books bound

To stay in an archive

Sometimes I just sit there,

waiting to be struck,

with one poetic thought.

Other times I am struck,

with a line to my poem,

and I have nowhere,

to write it down.

Inspiration comes from,

nature and the world.

The pencil soars across the black page

painting imagination, uniqueness

illuminating places concealed in the corner of your mind

bringing eccentric beasts into the fabric of reality

blustering winds rush over once serene, quiet glades

Breathing in. The lungs expand, chest tight. The air catches in my throat. Breathing out. The air slithers out, my eyes going, facing the paper. It is blank, void of anything but a red line and blue lines. My mind is already at work. What is it going to be?

right now, I am a rough draft.

I am left here to be

looked back on and revised

It is a wall.

It is stiff, blank. Unmoving. 

It guards the paradise 

That she knows belongs there.

It is a stone

Waiting for her, the sculptor, 

To make it mean something.

The form of letters slop and curve on a page

like a human body. 

White paper, bare skin,

The line of a belt below a belly button:

the line of a notebook just below a sentence. 

Sometimes all it takes is

A lyric of a song 

A fragment of a conversation 

A moment captured in a photograph 

Then suddenly there you are 

Using whatever you can 

Napkins, paper, your own skin 

Being a creator isn’t easy. Your inside thoughts and feelings are always on display to everything on the outside.

If time could be measured in words

I would handwrite novels until my knuckles bled

Analyze every single piece written by Steven King twice

Type poems so complex so that the meaning gets lost

Construct every screenplay to give you the ending you deserve

it’s been a while

        since I found encouragement

        to rid myself of this

        writer malnourishment

        I guess I lost myself

a house can feel like a whole world

when you’re lying in your bed at 4 a.m.,

too early to rise in a coup against the lingering stars,

too late for the soft black of the backs of eyelids to last long enough,

snap the barrel of a boy fully loaded with good intentions 

and shoot yourself.

break your own heart,

into jigsaw puzzle pieces 

so you can practice the art of putting yourself back together.

The way they teach poetry in schools

Is not the only way it can be written

               Structured stanzas

             and 

  parallel pantoums