Do you know, I consider my poetry an embarrassing detail about myself?
When people ask me what I write I always say ‘short stories’ or ‘essays’ or ‘novels’–even though I haven’t written one since I was thirteen. (because let’s face it, i’ll never top that work of genius)
Because isn’t that pretentious, saying that, and won’t they look down on me, and it’s probably no good anyway–and it probably isn’t.
And yet I start this blog and what do I post?
Not once or twice but twelve times in a row?
And a few people read it, people I don’t know and will never meet, but hello you beautiful people, you’ve read words I that come to me
in the cracks of the day while the sun slides his fingers back over the mountains
or ghosting between the lines in my textbooks
or under my fingers as I play the piano
or around the syllables of a customer’s question.
And you’ve read them and listened for a moment, and what a curious thing that is.
So thank you, to the early few as I’m limbering up my voice. Let’s have a go at it, shall we?