Up in Arms

Busy busy.

I went to an event last night, a great fundraiser for independent theatre, and someone asked me if I was a writer. I didn’t know what to say. I fussed and flailed. Flailed! I despaired to a friend later on and found a strange peace in his knowing response. “You’ve gotta stop flailing. Your arms get tired.”

Why was it so hard to say? I just spent all day writing, but I still feel like a fraud. And I miss thinking in poetry. I found this in my drawer the other day:

There were days when I thought and dreamt in poetry

Each thought winged, garlanded,

daisy chain word train,

dripping

INK mind.

Not like these words,

drawn like teeth [these metal tools LAID OUT]

or the miracle of two golden sounds, clutched in a cloth,

kept for safe keeping

under my pillow.

drowning

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