Each time I am distracted, a piece of my mind is torn wide open like a bag of kettle cooked potato chips.
Each time I must drag myself back, life drains out of me, a blood donation gone awry.
It’s easy to say that an even life is the best path, but sometimes deep breathing leaves me empty.
Finding poems like really cool rocks, is more a matter of luck than observation
Like spotting that black girl at the crosswalk tonight with square hairstyle, wearing a green orchid.
I can’t make this up especially when inspiration drains from me like dinner sunlight.
Poems dragged up from god-knows-where: that is slave labor.
But the sparkly garnet ones, the ones that are secrets,
The ones that gaze at our faces the way stars gaze at our poems,
seeking constellations in syllables and rhyme, is just like fishing,
waiting for the unspeakable that lurks just below the water, tugging at your line.
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