i.

sound of wood creaking
old house, leaning, remembers
dust pile, broken glass

ii.

boy sits on playground
a swing is moving slowly
no one else is here

iii.

string between two posts
pulled, released, sings softly
the color of light

iv.

the man on the bench
blowing smoke rings into
lazy summer air

v.

three friends in a pond
the ducks squabble noisily
small portion of bread

vi.

a dust beaten road
traveller slowly passes
the vultures nearby

vii.

we stand in the ring
eyes fall upon each other
death stands in between

because this morning I had a really good line but I was on the bus and by the time I got home I had forgotten it and everything I tried to write from then on in was a run-on sentence or sounded like borrowed bullshit

because it's hard to remember the sound of your own voice when all you do is stare at a screen and wonder what you would have to say if you were outside busy being alive and not just trying to find words to describe what living is like

because it's too tempting to try tricks, practice poetic licks like alliteration and assonance until the raw and real recedes, takes flight, respite under trite turns of the tongues of young ones, and see what I've just done?

because the hard-earned moment of genius comes only when the doors of my house have been kicked in, when the angel of death has come and my first child has been taken, and then! then my typewriter is my tongue is on fire, and until then I have to practice

because the words that truly burn will strip off everything and I will have too much information, like seeing my grandmother naked, that awkward moment when everything is suddenly known and there is nothing appropriate to say; this is the real meaning of prophecy

because I am afraid of speaking and afraid of silence, I am afraid to be brushed off, I am afraid to be shown, I am afraid to be hidden, I am afraid to be known, I'm afraid of telling lies, I'm afraid of the truth, I am afraid of me and I am afraid of you

because it's hard to know when to end.