No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I don’t write a little every day. I stay up for two days, sleep for twelve hours, and then repeat that for a month. That’s the rhythm. When it hits, I don’t pace myself. I disappear into it. My body is not a temple. I use it to write until the thing is done. Then I collapse, hard, and spend the next few weeks pretending to be a person while waiting for it to happen again.
Talented writers...
You need poetry to"free yourself" from misconceptions.
What I learned most from reading books was that "I needed to read more books".
I rowed through the lifeless water, gripping the jar between my legs. I was alone in the bay. Too early in the season for lobster boats and tourists. A light drizzle soaked through my jacket. I didn’t feel it.
Dad used to take me rowing in the cove at night and tell me Penobscot Bay ghost stories. Pitch black, but for the stars, and the fog light he’d leave on at the shack. My favorite story was my great grandfather’s.
A 12” disc of 180 gram vinyl, encased in a glossy, dark green cover. Four mop-topped boys on the front look like brothers, and they’re oddly slanted, the grainy photo distorted. In the corner are fat, bubbly letters perfectly reminiscent of the psychedelic mid-sixties. I’m told by music journals that the album cover was edgy. It probably looks like how the Beatles saw the world starting that year. Ringo says they were stoned out of their mind for the filming of their movie, Help!, just months before, so it’s safe to say they were probably stoned for most of this album, too. Granny probably wasn’t thinking this, though. The album, I’m sure, left a lasting impression on her back in 1965.