Why I Write

I write poetry and stories for a variety of reasons. One is simple. I enjoy it. I like to transform a blank piece of paper into a new creature. I like that I don’t know what type of creature I’m sketching and the fact that its face is revealed to me slowly.

Another is that writing enables me to better understand and appreciate the way in which human beings are connected. Despite all of our differences in geographical location, background, upbringing, education, talent and erratic circumstance, we share the same large helping of humanity. Writing helps me see existence in terms of overlapping rhythms that share countless crests and troughs, more together than separate, like ripples created by rain in a pond.

I also write because I am compelled to do so. I hear scores of rhythms and voices and instead of letting them pass by and fade into the distance, I do my best to capture them on paper. This helps me stay anchored and (partially, anyway) keeps me from needing to relearn the same lessons.

Baltic Soap

I am loved (I believe)

by all men, in the SMALL ways of men, like:
hearty clasps and job promotions

and loved by all women
in the LARGE ways of women
like pasta dinners and crates of RC Cola.

I imagine this is so because my heart is pure

(not like babies or snow)

but I never killed anyone. With a shotgun.

Okay, we jumped three guys on Van Ness one night
rolled off the curb in front of screeching headlights
ripped a shiny leather coat with a god-damned BELLOW
from this one guy...

but I lost MY HAT!
the green one I have never since replaced
so I figure: we're even.

This time there were no big oak doors
no bailiffs with fat beating their belts:

ALL RISE!

no clean shaven prosecutors with technicality voices.

I was alone. Hell, I knew the answers.
It was bed bugs caused VD; silver SHADOWS
only lived in the parking lot.

I felt clean then, and soapy
and some mornings, when the sheets are cool
I am transported outside my fish mouth
to catch a shiny bubbling bauble.

I am loved (I believe) by all benches and trees
in the small ways of benches and trees...

and loved by small voices in alleys
in the small ways of small voices in alleys.

Yet, even with a GALLON of grits, I cannot swallow
the shallow ways in which I forget to express my affection.

Even with Baltic Shampoo I cannot rinse myself clean
of the muddy chances I have taken.