These pages always look like the blank stares
of vacant houses
waiting to be outfitted with furniture—
that expresses my taste
and my internal state, and just looks like
it's just always been there.
And I'm supposed to keep the impressive stuff
up front
where other people who come over
can see it.
But the truth is—some days, I'm sick of that.
The truth is,
I just want to sit around
on a mattress in my underwear.
The truth is—what I write
doesn't have to be fact
to feel comfortable or
be truthful.
In fact, I don't even want to sit around—
now I want to run
and meet you
standing on a snowy street corner
somewhere
in a similar but fictive universe.
So I write that down, and
Bam—there I am.
Boom—there's moody late afternoon
street lighting, there's music.
But then, even the paper and pen,
even the blinking computer
begin to feel constrictive
and expected.
So it's: quick—pick up that
hammer and thread,
go get a needle
and nails;
I'm off to make something stupid
and new.
