bread 82208

August 21, 2008

In re-reading, I found myself talking
And giving me chills, self-serving chills
Not unlike the ones I get from listening to the music I love.

What makes up for the time between words? I have lost my key.
What makes up for the time I took to put it all on paper?
When do I get a receipt on my time? Was it all well spent?

Take two doses of the syllables of love and focus and pour them into
Equally shaped batter bowls. Stir. Add vanilla.

Frankly, it was easier to read myself again now, tonight
Than before, and I have discovered what bread I make when I write.
I don’t know how I ever left my fingers and pens alone all this time.

Bang, bang, cold clackity-clack keyboard, bang, bang.
Eat that cake, slow-no-milk, eat up every crumb
Dry throated warbler, no song without a poem.
No song without a poem; no words without a voice.

Make it up as you go, pogo boy,
pogo boy.


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