Why I Write, Part x+77: I'll Always Be a Writer

The publishing process is light having daughters
In some evil, sadistic, misogynist culture.
The act of creation is a bloodless birth,
Bringing something new, uncontrolled, onto earth,
But the vicarious ambition and personal greed
In letting your creation be mutilated to succeed
and letting editors and publishers take your daughter
Is a reason I'll always be a writer, not an author.

You Reach a Point, Pt. 4

You reach a point where the past doesn't matter.

Your present is here, and the past was back there.

Why were you so passionate about her, either way?

Is hindsight perspective, or details blurred from far away?

You Reach a Point, Pt. 3

You reach a point where the past doesn't matter.

Your present is need, and you need to have her

Out of your life, as fast as you are able.

It might not be her fault, but together, you're unstable,

and not like an eccentric chair, like the middle east.

Maybe you constrain her, or she brings out the beast

In you, with her hundred nagging habits.

Whatever it is, it's been too long, and you won't have it.

You Reach a Point, Pt. 2

You reach a point where the past doesn't matter.

Your present is need, and you need to have her

Have her by your side, in your life, in all ways,

Need to have her support through rough days,

Need to have her long enough, a chance to reciprocate,

Need to have her now.  All the baggage can wait.

Why I Write, Part x+76: You Reach a Point

You reach a point where your body just kind of fails,

and I'm not saying I'm there today,

But my legs aren't good for much but growing hair.

My mind, though, is mostly there.

So now I'm going to smash my keyboard and some records

For number of poems and total summer words

and actually finishing a big writing project for once.

It doesn't do to be both broken and a dunce.

Dreams, Pt. 2

When it finally came time for me to release

Dreams of being a fullback or chief of police,

The idea that I could be a writer took hold.

(Okay, I've been a writer since about eight years old.)

It really took me back to my late childhood to see

An old friend from my past living my future for me,

Complete with royalty checks and book signings.

I was green with amusement, but there's no call for whining.

She earned what she has with late nights at the desk or research-reading

(Though I have late nights, too, their employment is...more fleeting).

Every Poet's Concern

Mortality is every poet's concern.

We ponder, consider, maybe wish to learn.

Death is a desperate man's last refuge-place,

a last way to save himself anguish, save face.

So have I thought about dying?  Stupid question.

I've taken it both philosophically and as a suggestion,

But the point I come back to is so far life's given

Me a hundred ways to die, but only one chance at livin.