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<o[[[><

when you feel like
you're drowning


learn to be a fish!.

[10W]

my shadow
unfolded,
captive
of a blind night.

dazed,
straying,
time feeds on days,
unanchored.

A famous poet
A master
Of thirty (or more) years
Of teaching poetry
    (taught by Ginsberg I've been told)
Left a voicemail...a generous offer...to read my poetry
To give me instruction
At a downtown coffee shop
For fifty dollars an hour

Fifty dollars an hour?
Shouldn't he have an office?
Well, it's as close to a 1920s parisian dive around Boulder as one could find
I used to hang out there
And write before work

Eh
Perhaps it's not as weird as I think it is
Perhaps I can ascertain a love for language that couldn't be achieved outside of reading my Blake, Whitman, Hemingway, Lawrence, Dickerson...

He will read my poetry
And guide me towards accessibility, honesty, vulnerability, courage
I will be relatable (for once)
With beautiful imagery
That will open
    universes

I am suppose to text him back

Is this what I want?

What I want...thats something folks closest to me dare not ask

What has what I want have to do with anything in my life?

What I want, what I want, what I want

I want my voice to come forth effortlessly from my adventurous life, my song to echo expansive landscapes and treks, to learn intimate knowledge of plants and rocks, and laugh with the beautiful people that inhabit such places

I know tonight
Nothing matters
Until
I set an opportunistic sail to this change in the wind

I have already ventured deep into this life, I've not gone gently into the night, so why start now?

The time to shove off is soon

Like Whitman said...
"AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road...
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose"

Hell ya, brother Walt

She arched, and peeled
a red plum into my
mouth, including
the ragged pit;

though she had the charm
of a pumice stone, I did
not spit or complain.

Often-
I do not feel I've softened,
among the shallow grave
of the high ten,..
yearning for the execution
of the rest of them.

Not often do I feel the presence
of others in the narcisism
of the mirror in their pockets and
in the ego in my noggin...

And not often do I sweat from
the realm of ideas in the
middle of a winter that never
sees the cold.

Not every so often

There are words in my head
and the words make sentences
and the sentences make paragraphs
and then the paragraphs form stories that
are incoherent and jumbled like aphasia and
I'm drunk with this pain because there are too
many words too many words too many words and

my heart is so thirsty

my mind is so quiet

my hands are so still

built a dam
****** the flow
to rock me
in a nebula
of aphasia

damask and silk
amniotic velvet
all five senses
spelling your smile
the touch of your voice