Tonight I found that current so I wrote and wrote and wrote. I meant to do, to submit, to put effort in to this, the side that flirts with fears. I was ready to push through. My intentions do so much more than I can muster.
But tonight, how could I let her magic words slip through to someone else ready for the big ideas, for the small ideas that likely mean more?
When I get in this headspace my brain works sideways. Every thing I attempt to say slants away from vertical.
Another peek at process: the tabbed detritus of my poetry fueled queries. define derision, write synonyms, ceramic glaze, vitreous enamel, burning bush, antonym spontaneous, define conspicuous, rhymezone hungrily, superficial middle cerebral vein, define ardent, define intently.
I just watched the first season of Stranger Things. My brain goes to the Upside Down, and I have been practicing how to slay monsters.
Tonight I wrote five and a half poems, including this sonnet:
I do my best to stay present
My mind builds whole worlds from a single phrase
Following corrected recollection
The light I build around you is all haze
Softness a synonym for protection
Cradled right from nascent to final day
I have tried everything but I remain
Caught in calamitous naïveté
Superficial middle cerebral vein
Always chasing thoughts across hemisphere
Forever working on how to slow down
Blame every ill on inaction my dear
Imagination built against breakdown
Tonight I dream of piling books in bed
Stealing kisses between the words you read