What strange alchemy happens in those boiling shells that renders the soft soup of embryo to a hardened jelly? Any scientist who claims to know this process is a liar and a con artist. The mysteries contained within the walls of that brittle housing aren’t meant for our understanding. If a human were to grasp the mechanisms of a boiling egg, they would immediately reach Nirvana and transcend the material plane. I keep my boiled eggs in a plastic bag, moistened by steamy condensation from the cooking process. That way the eggs feel at home. It’s like they never left the shell. I take all the broken shells from years back and construct a great and beautiful man-sized shell. I incubate my dreams in the shell. That’s where I live.
I bought a web domain to have a go at being real. I’ve been unreal for a long time– living in odd places– places where people aren’t supposed to live… open mics message boards Twitter…
Now I live in palaces in the sun. Now I’m finally real. My words live in houses of the wholly realized.
Contrary to popular mythos there is love on the internet and it comes from knowing there’s a home for broken sentences and calcified syntax.
National Poetry Writing month takes its toll. 30 poems in 30 days. Content burnout is real.
I know a guy who lives in an adobe cottage in New Mexico, who lives contentedly, is madly in love, and writes like 3 poems a day. I don’t know how he does it.
1 poem a day for 1 month just about cracks me open. That’s why I’m making this diary entry metatext. I need a break. I need something easy.
It’s impossible to feel the muse all the time because she exacts a toll and takes more than she gives.
Better to replenish oneself periodically with a self-indulgent diary post. It may not be good reading, but it saves one from total burnout.
if we are living we are not made of stone. our bones are not broken yet. we’ve made our houses in the shade and our blankets are dry for now. we dream of drinking light and our shadows turn to bricks with which we construct new libraries and all the books are made of our best stories our best shelves
puddles splash forever light crawls into pores the sun is only softness and never shades of brutality.
all business dies. all business dies. and the curse of commerce is lifted