I would like
to believe that all writers
know this feeling,
the one you get when you're in
the zone
and the words flow naturally
and you're in tune
with the universe
and the vibrations
of your soul
reach out into the
infinite
and come back with the
forces of creation
and we become the shapers of
worlds and words
and that
sort of power
is intoxicating
and that sort of buzz
is what keeps us coming
back to our
infinitely unwritten
universes

I don't edit
my poetry
for the most part
it's first draft
final draft
and a writer friend of
mine
tells me that this makes the
poetry more real
and perhaps I'm
inclined to agree
in that it's more real
in the same way that
blood
at a crime scene is infinitely
more real than the grainy
photos that make it to the
papers with the chalk outlines
and the grayscale
acting as formalities,
muddying up the
action and excitement

here's to those who still
get drunk
and hang out on elementary
school playground sets
and tell each other
secrets overheard only
by the stars
because feeling a bit tipsy
is easier than
feeling nothing at all

All poetry is drunk poetry
but some of it doesn't
involve
any alcohol at all

I went on a short trip
to a nearby port town
nestled on a lake that's
greater than any of your
lakes
and this town's identity is
inextricably linked to the
notion of being a port town
and everything is all
lighthouses and blue

I ended up at a deli
by the marina and
paid ten dollars
for a corned beef sandwich
that shouldn't have cost
that much
but maybe part of the extra cost
was paying for the view of seagulls plucking
dead fish out of the water
that was being endlessly rolled
by the late winter winds
and just like how all the other
restaurants were closed
because us food workers
need rest on Mondays,
the wind kept Spring at bay
for one day longer.

We were in a coffee shop
in a town perpetually out
of my budget range
when one of my
writer friends
asks me if I've ever
written a sonnet
and I responded with
something beautiful and
meaningless along the lines of:

"I like the freedom
of putting words
to the rhythm of
everyday observations
instead of trying to make
life fit into a specific
model of rhythm and
rhyme"

but the fact of the matter
is that I don't know
how
to write sonnets
or how that rhyming structure
works
since I spend all my time
learning about plants
and hanging out with my cats
instead of seriously learning
how to do
poetry

Welcome to the land of make-believe
where we all like to pretend
that the sun is always rising
and our dreams will never end
and here we are liars
defenders of the soul
believing we'll never tire
of making each other whole
but a brief word of warning,
something to keep you safe
don't let any of us lie to you
and say wine tastes like anything but grapes.