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I’m stuck here, in this office, until the words come. The one thing I didn’t want to do today was to write another self-indulgent, confessional poem. But that was that was coming up.  Nor do I feel up to the bravery and courage and energy it takes to write anything political. Lauren Zuniga can, but I am a big wuss right now. This poem about personhood is amazing and beautiful.

Or you can watch it here, and you should:

I wish I could write something with one tenth of that emotion, tonight, but I don’t anticipate anything so gripping. Today was the first day of our new semester, and it was good, but exhausting, which should not exempt me from the harder choices, but it is going to, somehow, I think. But exhaustion is an inexcusable excuse, for a poet, I believe, especially given the hours we are forced to keep. There is now really no excuse for writing something like this”

We were all scribblers

We were all scribblers once.

Once we took up crayons in our fists. Once upon a time, we moved it on the paper, if we were privileged, in in the dust if we were fighters.

Working the wax upon the fibers, we each drew greater circles, faster and faster. If colors were available, we switched hands.

The missing school girls, who didn’t die on a a plane and so are not newsworthy, they colored. The efforts of the fevered ones takes shape in small palms. Warm and sweaty from the thirst, they mark on that void.

Somewhere in Ukraine, babies are taking up pencils, and colors. Somewhere in South America they draw clouds in the shape of concentric circles, pillowy shapes in bold pigment.

Each stroke is a voyage that tells more than bone. Each line tells of a bald message and of a truer line. The thicker the wax, the better.

There are so many children drawing now, all dreaming in spectrum.


Well. That is done. It feels scary. I think that’s good. Poem. Happy Monday, poemfolk. Thank you for being around.