All of the dance moms are on their iPhones-
All I have is my notebook.
Pen scratching on paper, I am...

Old school.

An island of last century
In a sea of modern marvels of technology.

The best poems are those poems
that evoke much meaning
from few words.

The Best Poems, Revisited

The best poems are those poems
that evoke much meaning
from few words...

Unless one is getting paid by the word,
then you expand on your theme to include
as much as possible-possibly even the kitchen
sink-in order to maximize the profitability of your poem,
filling the space.

But if you are in it for the sheer pleasure of watching the words
form on the paper as you write,
and for the images and emotions-especially the images and
emotions-that are not written or remain unspoken, you stop. You read.
feeling the space.

sit down, pen and paper scrape together,
come up with something clever.
                                    
                    ­                                     blank mind

stare at the paper-don't doodle!
holding your head in your hand is not writing-
supposed to be writing
all of these skillfully woven thoughts that should be
bursting forth, but aren't.

stop spell checking, do it later. maybe that's the answer:

                                     automatic writing

OK go into trance let the pen and hand dance.
don't think, let the ink flow from the inside to the surface,
you're thinking on purpose...stop it! OK this is obviously not working,
it's just jerking off and it doesn't even feel good, although it should.

Come up with a subject, not abstract thought...wait...thought has no
place here. where is the Muse? I'll blow a fuse if I don't get to use a
clever phrase I turned today. what about childhood walks in the woods,
first love, real love, not in-puppy-love with Jody Foster!

during the day all the stuff that's enough to fill a book gets wasted
and lambasted. I'm mad as hell and here I sit
broken hearted did my time and only started three hours ago.
could have taken a tour by now and, holy cow!, the Tao probably took
less time to write than this night of the living dead man
with two pinky and the brains.

where the hell am I going with this clap trap? this is out of hand, out
of mind-otherworldly. is this all that i am:

                                    meaningless gobbeldy-****

I'm getting spooked. it's time to stop and drop the needle on a different track,
stop the attack sit back relax choose to lose my senses, dulled and lulled into
false pretenses, mend some fences with myself, or else.

Or else, what? Not contemplate, deliberate, speculate, ruminate, investigate,
radiate...KNOCK IT OFF! Just put the pen down, get up, walk out of the room.

The door to my heart
Is ever open.
To step inside requires
The leap of faith that I
Will be there, door open,
Fire burning.

My friends set me up on a date.
"You will like her", they said.
"She has the same interests and
Ideas", they said.
So we went out, she and I.

I discovered that I can't stand myself.

He is dead, he is dead, he is dead, he is dead,
He once was alive, but now he's not, he's dead.

He lived, he lived, he lived, he lived,
He lived until he lived no more, he's dead.

He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he is gone,
He was here and then he went away, he's gone.

He is dead, he is dead, he is dead, he is dead,
He once was alive but now he's not...

He's dead.