Another poetic moment this morning -- they're getting like cockroaches around here, aren't they?
Once there was a garden here
but time took care of it.
Sometimes you write things that come out like these lines. Like hand grenades.
Denial is the main entree
served to the starved at faith's buffet.
If you have the spine to reach for more of the same, you can keep going with them. Or you can put them back, very carefully.
he made me eat the fish I scorched
and it tasted like forever in that house
Novels are not like poetry. Novels are my faithful companions, ever ready to do wonderful tricks to entertain me. Sort of like having really great dogs (and I apologize right now to every novelist who takes offense at that.)
My postcards from Hell returned
Poetry doesn't particularly like me, and could care less whether I like it. Poetry sneaks in and hides and waits. Poetry doesn't show its face until I'm at the brink of another black pit depression. It does not cast safety lines or flotation devices.
More often than not, it pushes me over the edge.
Run forever toward that line
Where they promised us an end
And we know they lied so many times.
Poetry is a ghost cat with very real, accurate claws.