I am getting caught up. All the scraps for poems which I have been carrying around in my pockets, sending through washing machines, salvaging, drying, resurrecting from notebooks... I am getting them down here.
This site is akin to those art sites where people paint a painting a day, knit and stitch quilts, or create pottery.
There are other poetic sites, but they seem too something... too academic... too much like well-defined Art.
I was just reading some poetry, and the words overwhelm me like liquid sonance, and I felt like a child playing at the beach.
Words are the beach, the willow, and the girl you remember who climbed up the willow tree. The words are the words you shared and the breathing of both your eyes.
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