Until Recently, I Thought 'occasional Poetry' Meant

Life Is A Loaded Gun That Looks Right At You With A Yellow Eye.

This Is Not What It Is Like To Be You, I Realized As A Few Of Your Magnificent Clouds Flew Over The Rooftop. It Is Just Me Thinking About Being You. And Before I Headed Back Down The Hill, I Walked In A Circle Around Your House, Making An Invisible Line Which You Would Have To Cross Before Dark.

I Can Hear The Library Humming In The Night, A Choir Of Authors Murmuring Inside Their Books Along The Unlit, Alphabetical Shelves, Giovanni Pontano Next To Pope, Dumas Next To His Son, Each One Stitched Into His Own Private Coat, Together Forming A Low, Gigantic Chord Of Language.

I Sit In The Dark And Wait For A Little Flame To Appear At The End Of My Pencil.

I Can't Picture Myself Starting Out Aiming To Do Anything Or Having Much Of An Agenda.i Think In Writing A Poem, I'm Making Some Tonal Adjustments, And It Took Me A Long Time To Allow Anything Like Fun Into My Poetry.